“That’s right, rub it in,” said the Artist. “When I came out here I didn’t count on being hoodooed by these four-legged friends of yours that can do everything but talk.”
“They can talk too,” retorted Galatea wickedly; “and they don’t confine their harangues to automobiles, either.”
The Artist winced. Galatea had one more shot for him.
“If you positively must be in Stamford at three o’clock, I’m sure Cleopatra will be only too glad to oblige you.”
“The blacksmith down to the station can fix you up in ten minutes,” spoke up Gabriel. “He’s a reg’lar genius at tinkerin’ up hossless buggies.”
“It’s mostly down-hill to the station,” said the Poet; “I’m sure Cleopatra will be charmed to assist the Red Ripper that far.”
Galatea sat down on the ground and laughed.
“Gosh, yes,” said Gabriel, starting for the barn. “I’ll go an’ git her harness.”
The Artist surrendered. He sat down beside Galatea, while the Poet looked the other way, and whispered things that made her eyes shine.
When Gabriel reappeared with the harness, a whiffletree and a stout chain, Cleopatra’s complete understanding of the situation could not be doubted. She thrust out her head for the collar, welcomed the bridle, and before the straps were buckled trotted proudly into position before the vehicle, which was now no better than an ordinary buggy.