“Or punctured a tire?”
“The Red Ripper’s tires are warranted puncture-proof”; and the Artist entered into a long technical description of the new and improved process which had produced the Red Ripper’s impregnable tires. Galatea sighed several times, but it was useless.
“After all,” drawled the Poet at the first opening caused by a fish-bone sticking in the Artist’s throat, “you can’t make a sympathetic companion of an automobile as you can of a horse. Why, Galatea and I have the most improving conversations with Cleopatra and the pig.”
“Yes,” chimed in Galatea eagerly, “even Gustavius, the bull-calf, understands everything we say to him. It all proves the Professor’s theory that we don’t give these domestic pets half the credit they deserve for intelligent and affectionate interest in us and our affairs.”
“I’ve heard of your Professor and his crazy theories about animals,” said the Artist, having swallowed the fish-bone. “I’ll bet you do just as he did—you keep your pockets full of sugar for the mare, and you scratch the pig’s back.”
“Arthur, you haven’t the first conception—”
“No, Arthur,” broke in the Poet, seeing the fire in his sister’s eyes, “you couldn’t even see that Cleopatra was aware that your Red Ripper is a menace to her means of livelihood.”
“Pooh! George, the mare isn’t used to automobiles, that’s all.”
The Artist looked at his watch. “I think we had better be going, Galatea; I’ve just twenty-five minutes in which to whirl you thirty miles and back.”
Galatea disappeared, and returned in a moment with her fluffy pink costume, hat and all, covered by a hooded cloak of gray silk which became her exceedingly. The Artist put on his cap and gloves. At that instant a series of heart-rending squeals filled the air.