“Thank you. I have been over to see them, and they need help—they really do.”
“I presume likely. How’d the accident happen? Anybody’s fault, was it?”
Caroline’s eyes snapped. “Indeed it was!” she said, indignantly. “It was a wet morning, after a rain, and the pavement was slippery. Mr. Moriarty, Annie’s father, was not working that day—they were making some repairs at the factory where he is employed, I believe—and he had gone out to do the family marketing. He was crossing the street when an automobile, recklessly driven, so everyone says, drove directly down on him. He tried to jump out of the way and succeeded—otherwise he might have been killed; but he fell and broke his hip. He is an old man, and the case is serious.”
“Dear! dear! you don’t tell me! Poor old chap! The auto feller—did he help? Seems to me he ought to be the one to be spendin’ the money. ’Twas his fault.”
“Help! Indeed he didn’t! He and the man with him merely laughed, as if it was a good joke, put on speed, and disappeared as quickly as possible.”
“Why, the mean swab! Did this Mr. Moriarty or the folks around get the license number of the auto?”
“No. All they know is that it was a big yellow car with two men in it.”
“Hey? A yellow car?”
“Yes. Somewhat similar to the one Malcolm—Mr. Dunn drives.”
“So, so! Hum! Where did it happen?”