Down the steps to the lawn and around the corner of the house they went, in single file. The stout gentleman paused near a small porch that evidently constituted an entrance to the kitchen. He looked around cautiously in the semidarkness. Bidding Pete to remain exactly where he stood, he stole across to the side of the porch with catlike steps, fumbled there for a moment, and returned, trundling a vehicle.
It was a motor-cycle, and attached to it was one of those peregrinating bath-tubs known as a side car.
"Sh! Last car in Larchmont, viscount. Belongs to gardener. 'Sall yours."
In the dim light Pete examined it hastily. He mounted the saddle and threw the switch. He pumped the starting pedal. At the third thrust there was a sharp explosion, and then a rapid fire that cut the night. He let the engine race for half a minute, then throttled down and leaned over toward his benefactor.
"Sir," he said, "you are the noblest of men. You do not know just what you have done, but it is a service far beyond price."
"Viscount," answered his host, with a deep bow, "pleasure's all mine. Any gentleman beats me cowboy pool—any gentleman honors me cowboy pool—any gentleman from Arabian Nights——" A thought occurred to him. "Want you to meet family. Stay and meet family. Stay and meet society. Stay——"
Pete interrupted him hastily.
"At any other time, sir, I should be charmed. But, as I told you, there is a lady awaiting me."
"Forgot lady. My apologies. Forgot all about lady. My apologies to lady."
"And so I bid you good night, sir. And may Heaven reward you," said Pete fervently.