“This—this is just delightful,” sighed Mrs. Heard. “Especially after sitting behind that brute of a pony. I do love an automobile.”
“So do I!” Agnes cried. “I’d rather ride in this car than in a golden chariot—I know I would.”
“I don’t know how they run chariots, nowadays,” said Neale, chuckling; “whether by horse-power or gas. But sometimes a car balks, you know.”
“Not so often as that Jonas,” declared Mrs. Heard. “I’ve been out with my nephew a lot. His is a nice car. I hope he’ll find it.”
“Why, of course the thieves will be apprehended,” said Ruth. “What good are the police?”
“When it comes to autos,” said Neale, slyly, “the police are mostly good for stopping you and getting you fined.”
“Well, don’t you dare drive too fast and get us fined, Neale O’Neil,” ordered Ruth, sternly.
“No, ma’am,” he returned. But Agnes whispered in his ear:
“I don’t care how fast you run it, Neale. I love to go fast.”
“You’ll be a speed fiend, Aggie,” he declared. “That’s what you’ll be.”