With an agonized wail Jake sailed through the air a few feet and then, alighting on his feet, galloped off unhurt but squealing as if he had been mortally injured.
“Goodness,” exclaimed the girl alarmedly, and then, “gracious!”
The quick twist of the wheel had caused the car to give a jump and a skid and land in the ditch, where it came to a standstill. Farmer Applegate, rage tinting his face the color of a boiled beet, came storming down the path.
“This is the time I got yer, hey?” he shouted at the alarmed occupant of the auto. “That makes three times you run over Jake. You got away them other times, but I got yer nailed now. Kaint git yer car out uv ther ditch, hey? Wa’al, it’ll stay thar till yer pay up.”
“I’m—I’m dreadfully sorry,” stammered the girl, “really I had no intention of hurting—er—Jake. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be hurt at all.”
There appeared to be good reason for such a supposition. Jake, at the moment, was engaged in combat over a pile of corn fodder with several of his fellows.
“Humph! Prob’ly hurt internal,” grunted the farmer. “Anyhow, it’s time you bubblists was taught a lesson.”
“Oh, of course I’m willing to pay,” cried the girl, and out came a dainty hand-bag. “Er—how much will satisfy Jake’s—I mean your—feelings?”
The old farmer was quick to catch the note of amusement in the girl’s voice.
“You won’t mend matters by bein’ sassy,” he growled; “besides, your pop fired my boy down on the Isthmus an’ I ain’t feelin’ none too good toward yer.”