“Oh pshaw! He don’t understand United States!” cried Ned.
“That’s so,” admitted Jerry ruefully.
“Vamoose, is the proper word for telling a Mexican to get out of the road,” suggested the professor calmly. “Perhaps if you shouted that at him he might—”
What effect trying the right word might have had the boys had no chance of learning, for, the next instant, in spite of Bob’s frantic working at the brake, the auto shot right at the ox cart. By the merest good luck, more than anything else, for Bob could steer neither to the right nor left, because the narrow road was hemmed in by high banks, the machine struck the smaller vehicle a glancing blow.
The force of the impact skidded the auto on two wheels up the side of the embankment, where, poking the front axle into a stump served to bring the car to a stop. The car was slewed around to one side, the ox was yanked from its feet, and, as the cart overturned, the Mexican, yelling voluble Spanish, pitched out into the road.
Nor did the boys and the professor come off scathless, for the sudden stopping of their machine piled the occupants on the rear seat up in a heap on the floor of the tonneau, while Bob and Jerry, who were in front, went sprawling into the dust near the native.
For a few seconds there was no sound save the yelling of the Mexican and the bellowing of the ox. Then the cloud of dust slowly drifted away, and Bob picked himself up, gazing ruefully about.
“This is a pretty kettle of fish,” he remarked.
“I should say it was several of ’em,” agreed Jerry, trying to get some of the dust from his mouth, ears and nose. “You certainly hit him, Chunky!”
“It wasn’t my fault! How did I know the brake wasn’t going to work just the time it was most needed?”