All this happened so quickly that for a few seconds the chauffeur was completely dazed. But it was otherwise with Mrs. Andrews. Her senses were keenly alive, and her anger intense. She was now an antagonist of no inferior metal. Leaping from the car, she seized a dead fir bough lying near, and made for the chauffeur. The latter saw her coming, and his senses suddenly returned. With a yell he bounded from the seat, and started to spring from the auto. But in doing so his foot tripped, and he plunged headlong among the mass of bushes. With hands and face scratched, and clothes torn he made frantic efforts to extricate himself from his painful and humiliating position. But no sooner did he lift his head than he was furiously belabored by the angry woman standing before him.
"For God's sake, let up!" he implored. "You'll kill me."
"Kill you, eh?" was the reply. "Isn't that what you tried to do to me! Take that, and that, you villain."
"I was only in fun," the culprit explained, as he vainly attempted to dodge the rain of blows.
"Fun! Queer fun, you brute. But it isn't such fun now, is it?"
The stick was again about to fall, when with a howl the chauffeur reeled back, tore his way through the bushes, and reached the shelter of the dark woods beyond. From here he watched the irate woman, fully expecting her to follow. To him she seemed unusually large and menacing as she stood there drawn to her full height, the stick still in her hand, and her eyes searching the darkness of the forest.
For about a minute she remained in this position, though it seemed much longer to the trembling chauffeur. At length she turned and looked up and down the road. Hesitating only for an instant, she moved swiftly away, clutching the stick more firmly than ever, so as to be ready for any emergency.
Not until the chauffeur was certain that she was some distance away did he venture forth. Going cautiously to the auto, he brought from beneath the seat a half-drained bottle of whiskey. Holding it up in his hand, he looked in the direction Mrs. Andrews had taken.
"Here's to ye'r health, ye old she-cat, an' may the devil take me quick if I ever try to play any pranks upon the likes of you again."
Placing the flask to his lips, he drained the contents with much relish, and with a curse hurled the bottle among the trees. Then curling himself up in the back seat, and pulling over his body a heavy robe, in a few minutes he was fast asleep.