"I should like to, but I mustn't," he said. "And I shouldn't claim credit for deliberately making you a social call. I came—that is, I was sent here on a matter of—er—well, first aid to the injured. I came to see if you would lend me a crank."
Jed looked at him. "A—a what?" he asked.
"A crank, a crank for my car. I motored over from the camp and stopped at the telegraph office. When I came out my car refused to go; the self-starter appears to have gone on a strike. I had left my crank at the camp and my only hope seemed to be to buy or borrow one somewhere. I asked the two or three fellows standing about the telegraph office where I might be likely to find one. No one seemed to know, but just then the old grouch—excuse me, person who keeps the hardware store came along."
"Eh? Phin Babbitt? Little man with the stub of a paint brush growin' on his chin?"
"Yes, that's the one. I asked him where I should be likely to find a crank. He said if I came across to this shop I ought to find one."
"He did, eh? . . . Hum!"
"Yes, he did. So I came."
"Hum!"
This observation being neither satisfying nor particularly illuminating, Major Grover waited for something more explicit. He waited in vain; Mr. Winslow, his eyes fixed upon the toe of his visitor's military boot, appeared to be mesmerized.
"So I came," repeated the major, after an interval.