“Perhaps.”
“I’ll put on the brakes.” And put them on she did, with a savage jerk.
But nevertheless Weir’s powerful machine drew her car slowly up out of the creek upon the road, where he forced it about until it pointed towards San Mateo. Then he retied the rope on the front axle.
“Now for town,” said he.
“Why did you haul me out of there, I demand to know?”
“Why? Because you were a public obstruction blocking traffic. If you had remained there long enough you would have become a public nuisance; and it’s the 26 duty of every citizen to abate nuisances. No one would call you a nuisance, of course,––not to your face, at any rate. But travelers might have felt some annoyance if compelled to drive around you; they might even have had you arrested when they learned you were acting out of willful stubbornness.”
In a sort of incredulous wonder, of charmed horror, the girl heard herself thus unfeelingly described.
“You––you barbarian!” she cried.
“Ready? We’re off for town now.”
“I’ll run my car in the ditch and wreck it if you so much as pull it another inch!”