He fumbled in his pocket, wondering vaguely why nobody said anything except the children in the hedge, who still observed “Goy!” at intervals. Grange might have helped him out, but Grange was such a fool about animals; you wondered why he had ever taken to machines. Fortunately, the owner did not seem excited about the accident, thought the boy, seeing nothing unusual in the grim face which the northern children read so plainly.
He was a gentleman; and in justice it must be admitted that he offered his apology before he offered his gold; but perhaps his curiously-worded expressions of sorrow conveyed too little to the farmer, just as the gold conveyed too much. Grange made a movement to stop him when he saw the money; he had been bred in the dales. But again it was none of his business, and he shrugged his shoulders and stood aside, awaiting events.
They were not long in arriving. As the careless hand came out, Dixon’s brown fist flew up to meet it; the gold clove a glittering path into the ditch, and the stranger subsided into his seat, nursing a damaged wrist.
Then he laughed, and motioned the chauffeur to get in.
“As you please!” he said to the farmer; and—“Take the wheel!” to his servant; and, as they moved, stopped nursing his wrist to raise his hand to his cap. Dixon stood like a block.
Opposite the children, the motorist checked the car.
“There’s somethin’ in the ditch, yonder,” he observed, leaning forward, “that will set you up in bull’s-eyes for a month of Sundays!”—and not a child stirred. Behind him, he heard his own laugh echoed sardonically by Dixon—Dixon standing like a block beside his silver-haired darling.
“Grange, you fathead,” said his master thoughtfully, as the chauffeur swung his responsibilities out of sight, “why in the name of all that’s sportin’, didn’t you warn me?”
“Sir,” answered the chauffeur, “I have always understood that you preferred to learn by experience!”