“Say, Janice! this is Frank Bowman I was telling you about. He can run an ortermobile. Can’t you, Frank?”
“Good-day, Miss Janice,” said the young civil engineer, lifting his hat.
Janice could have shaken Marty for not properly introducing the young man. The careless introduction had given Mr. Bowman the advantage of calling her by her first name right at the start, and Janice felt that she would like to be “really grown up” in her association with this new acquaintance.
“I am afraid Marty overrates my ability as a mechanician,” the young civil engineer continued. “There are some automobiles, I believe, that not even their manufacturers can make run properly. But these Kremlins are very good machines. I have a friend in New York who has one and I have often driven it. I believe you have made a wise selection for this hilly country.”
“I am sure I know very little about it,” said Janice, smiling. “I have always believed that cars were like typewriters, or bicycles, or—or physicians and ministers! Every one stands up for his own particular possession in all those lines, you know.”
“That is so, too,” agreed Frank Bowman, with a laugh. “At any rate, you will be an enthusiastic admirer of this Kremlin car, I am sure; and I shall be a partizan myself. Marty says you have no idea how to run it?”
“I am a regular ignoramus,” admitted Janice. “If—if I’d known Daddy was going to surprise me with such a very wonderful gift, I would have gone to Middletown, or somewhere where there is a garage, and have taken lessons in running the car.”
“Say, you ain’t got a license, either, Janice,” said Marty suddenly. “They’ll pinch you, mebbe, if you drive it around here without one.”
“Don’t try to scare your cousin, Mart,” said the young man good-naturedly. “That’s easily remedied, for sure. As I happen to have a license myself, I’ll drive the car home for you—if you will permit me, Miss Janice?”
“My goodness! ain’t that just what I’ve been telling you she wants?” demanded the boy. “You folks are eaten up with politeness!”