“I’m Barney McGee, at your service, ma’am.”
“Our motor car broke down here last night and it was too dark to repair it. We were obliged to stay here all night. And while we slept, a robber stole it. We are simply stranded on the road. What can we do?”
Barney McGee gave a long, melodious whistle.
“Lifted your motor, ma’am! That was a d——, excuse me, a devilish low scoundrelly trick. If I could get to a telephone, we would round him up before he gets to Wyoming.”
“Oh, Mr. McGee, if you would only help us, we would owe you a debt of gratitude all our lives.”
“You say the motor was out of fix, ma’am?” he asked. “Then it may have broken down, again. I’ll just climb up and take a look at the countryside. What color was the car?”
“Red.”
To Nancy’s consternation, Barney McGee stood up on his saddle and grasping a limb, drew himself up into the very tree in which Billie was now making herself as scarce as possible.
It was an absurd situation and the two young girls hardly knew whether to keep silent or to speak. Billie kept saying to herself: