As Irene wheeled herself out upon the porch to see them start, Mary
Louise called to her:
"Here's your chair cushion, Irene, lying on the steps and quite wet with dew. I never supposed you could be so careless. And you'd better sew up that rip before it gets bigger," she added, handing the cushion to her friend.
"I will," Irene quietly returned.
Bub proved himself a good driver before they had gone a mile and it pleased Mr. Conant to observe that the boy made the trip down the treacherous mountain road with admirable caution. Once on the level, however, he "stepped on it," as he expressed it, and dashed past the Huddle and over the plain as if training for the Grand Prix.
It amused Mary Louise to watch their quaint little driver, barefooted and in blue-jeans and hickory shirt, with the heavy Scotch golf cap pulled over his eyes, taking his task of handling the car as seriously as might any city chauffeur and executing it fully as well.
During the trip the girl conversed with Mr. Conant.
"Do you remember our referring to an old letter, the other day?" she asked.
"Yes," said he.
"Irene found it in one of those secondhand books you bought in New
York, and she said it spoke of both my mother and my grandfather."
"The deuce it did!" he exclaimed, evidently startled by the information.