“Is anybody killed?” asked the professor, looking up over the edge of the tonneau, and not releasing his hold of several boxes which contained his specimens.
“Don’t seem to be, nor any one badly hurt, unless it’s the ox or the auto,” said Ned, taking a look. “The Mexican seems to be mad about something, though.”
By this time the native had arisen from his prostrate position and was shaking his fist at the Motor Boys and the professor, meanwhile, it would appear from his language, calling them all the names to which he could lay his tongue.
“I guess he wants Bob’s scalp,” said Jerry with a smile.
“It was as much his fault as mine,” growled Chunky. “If he had pulled to one side, I could easily have passed.”
The Mexican, brushing the dust from his clothes, approached the auto party, and continued his rapid talk in Spanish. The boys, who had been long enough in Mexico to pick up considerable of the language, gathered that the native demanded two hundred dollars for the damage to himself, the cart and the ox, as well as for the injury to his dignity and feelings.
“You’d better talk to him, Professor,” suggested Jerry. “Offer him what you think is right.”
Thereupon Professor Snodgrass, in mild terms explained how the accident had happened, saying it was no fault of the auto party.
The Mexican, in language more forcible than polite, reiterated his demand, and announced that unless the money was instantly forthcoming, he would go to the nearest alcade and lodge a complaint.