The young man easily settled that.
“Car broke down!” That was true enough. His car would never run again.
But the old man wanted to know where.
Not being acquainted with the roads thereabout, Van Rensselaer could not lie intelligently, and he answered vaguely that he had been taking a cross-cut through a terrible road that did not seem to be much travelled.
“’Bout a mile back?” asked the stranger.
“About.”
“H’m! Copple’s Lane, I reckon. In bad shape. Well, say, we might go back and hitch her on and tow her in. I ain’t in any special hurry.” And the man began to apply the thought to his brakes for a turn around.
The young man roused in alarm.
“Oh, no,” he said energetically. “I’ve got an appointment. I’ll have to hurry on. How far is it to a trolley or train? I’ll be glad if you’ll set me down at your home and direct me to the nearest trolley to the city. I’ll send my man back for the car. It’ll be all right,” he added, reverting in his anxiety to the vernacular of his former life.
His tone of the world made its immediate impression. The stranger looked him over with increasing respect. This was a person from another world. He talked of his man as of a chattel. The fur collar on the fine overcoat came in for inspection. He didn’t often have fur-lined passengers in his tin Lizzie.