There was a chuckle from the direction of the auto, a sound of suppressed female laughter. The sound rose, swelled until the two women and their man and presently George Helm were all four laughing uproariously. The lights turned in another direction. “Thanks,” said Helm. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
And it was scarcely more than that when he, clad in the frock suit and carrying the top hat in his hand, advanced toward the auto. “Now—what can I do for you?” inquired he.
“Do you know how to fit on a tire?” said the man—he was young, about George’s age—but a person of fashionable dress and manner.
“I don’t know a thing about automobiles,” replied Helm.
“But I do, Bart,” said one of the women—the one with the sweeter voice. “I can superintend.”
“Are we far from the main road?” said Bart to Helm.
“About a mile and a half.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m Barton Hollister.”
The young man spoke the name as if he were certain of its being recognized. “Oh, yes, I know you, Mr. Hollister. We come from the same town—Harrison. I’m George Helm.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said young Hollister graciously. “I suppose we’ve never happened to meet because I’m at home so little. You’ve lost your way, too?”