I don't know what else he was goin' to say, because just at that minute a Kansas cyclone on wheels come between us and I come to in a ditch about five feet from where the Kid is tryin' to see can he really stand on his head. When I had picked up enough ambition to get to my feet, I went over and jacked up the Kid. About half a mile up the road the thing which had attacked us is turnin' around.
"Run for your life!" I yells to the Kid. "It's comin' back!"
Before we could pick our hidin' places, the thing has drawed up in front of us and we see it's one of them trick autos known to the trade as racin' cars. I recognized it right away as belongin' to Miss Vincent. The owner was in the car and beside her was Edmund De Vronde, the shop-girls' delight. The Kid and De Vronde had took to each other from the minute they first met like a ferret does to a rat. It was a case of hate at first sight. So you can figure that this little incident did nothin' to cement the friendship. Miss Vincent leaps out of the thing and comes runnin' over to us.
"Good Heavens!" she says. "You're not hurt, are you?"
She's lookin' right past me and at the Kid like it made little or no difference whether I was damaged or not.
The Kid throws half an acre of California out of his collar and removes a few pebbles and a cigar butt from his ear.
"No!" he growls, with a sarcastical smile. "Was they many killed?"
She takes out a little trick silk handkerchief and wipes off his face with it.
"I meant to step on the foot brake," she explains, "and I must have stepped on the gas by mistake!"
"You must have stepped on the dynamite," I butts in, "because it blowed me into the ditch!"