He knelt down, still talking, and the Watermelon had a horrible fear for a moment that his would-be benefactor was about to offer up prayers for the safety of the car. He reached out his hand to stay proceedings, when the old gentleman spoke:
"I must get under the car."
"Maybe it's all right," suggested the Watermelon, who did not like the idea of being forced to go after him with the tools.
"Father," the lady's voice was gentle, but firm, and the old gentleman paused. "Let Alphonse go. You know we are to dine with the Bartletts. Alphonse, please find out what the trouble is."
Alphonse alighted promptly. He was a thin, dapper little man with a blasé superiority that was impressive as betokening a profound knowledge of the idiosyncrasies of motor-cars. He plainly had no faith in the old gentleman's diagnosis. He approached the car and announced the trouble practically at once.
"There is no gasolene."
The old gentleman was not in the least perturbed over his own slight error in judgment. "A frequent, very frequent oversight," said he, rising. "We will tow you to the hotel, my dear sir. You can get the gasolene there."
"Never mind," said the Watermelon. "I can hoof it."
"Hoof it!" The old gentleman was pained and hurt. "Hoof it, when I have my car right here! No, indeed. Alphonse, get the rope."
The Watermelon protested. "Aw, really, you know—"