“Then, he approached you on your right hand. He had the right of way.”
“Misto Dale, dat man done took all de way.”
“You know he had the right of way under the law,” bawled Obadiah, provoked by the stupidity of his servitor.
“Yas’r, dat’s de law.” A most flattering note of admiration for his employer’s legal acumen crept into Ike’s voice. “Misto Dale, yo’all sutinly knows de law.”
“Never mind what I know,” roared Obadiah, thrusting compliments rudely aside. “If that fellow hit my car you must have been in his way.”
“No, sar, Ah was er gwine to hit ’im, ’ceptin’ he dodge. He done cum so quick ah ain’ seen ’im ’till he whar der. Yas’r.”
Puzzled at what he had unearthed, Obadiah sought illumination along other lines. “How fast was that fellow running, Ike, when he hit you?”
The chauffeur lifted his eyes heavenward as if seeking inspiration. A crow winged its way slowly across the sky. He followed it critically as if using its speed as a measure for the estimate sought. “’Bout seventy seven mile er hour,” he ventured.
Obadiah boiled. “Seventy seven miles an hour on Second Street is absurd,” he blurted. “It’s too rough. A man would have to fly to do it.”
“Yas’r dat’s hit. He was er flyin’. Jest er hittin’ de high places.”