"Ponto," he said dreamily. "Good dog!"
The driver of the other car walked back and was standing by the window.
"You all right, mister?" he asked. "You was doing fifty easy. Lucky for you I see you coming."
The man in the driver's seat gave a feeble smile. "My fault," he admitted. "I was day-dreaming. Lucky this heap has good brakes. Are you all right? Any damage, I mean?"
The other man laughed. "Sure," he said. "I'll go on now, just so you're all right. Want a doc?"
"Uh-uh!" the man on the seat beside me shook his head. "My name's Tompkins and I live in Bedford Hills. If there's any damage, it's my fault and I'll pay for it. Sure you're okay?"
"Yep!" agreed the owner of the Chevrolet. "You got a cut or something. Reckon you'd ought to see a doc."
"I will," said the man beside me. "Don't worry. I'll be all right. Just bumped my head a bit."
We waited until the Chevrolet had rattled itself around the turn of the road. Then the man cautiously tried the gears and disinfiltrated the Packard from the apple-tree. He got out and inspected the car carefully for damage and then climbed back behind the steering-wheel. I started to ask him a question. It was a whine.
"Why Ponto!" he exclaimed. "You old black devil. How are you, hound? Long time no see."