At sunset York Macpherson drove into Ponk's garage.
"Hello, fellow-townsman! You look like a sick man!" he exclaimed, as the owner met him in the doorway.
"I'd 'a' been a dead man if you hadn't come this minute," Ponk growled back.
"Congratulations! The good die young," York returned. "I failed to get through to the place I wanted to see. That Saturday rain filled the dry upper channels where a bridge would rot in the tall weeds, but an all-day rain puts a dangerous flood in every ford, so I came back in time to save your life. What's your grievance?"
Ponk's face was agonizing between smiles and tears. "Well, spite of all I, or anybody could do, Miss Swaim takes my little gadabout this morning and makes off with it."
"And broke the wind-shield? I told you to keep her at home."
York still refused to be serious.
"I don't know what's broke, except my feelin's. You tried yet to keep her anywhere? She would go off to that danged infernal blowout section of the country, and she ain't back yet."
York Macpherson grasped the little man by the arm. "Not back yet! Where is she, then?"
"She ain't; that's all I know," Ponk responded, flatly. "Yes, yes, yonder she is just soarin' into the avenue up by 'Castle Cluny' this minute. Thank the Lord an' that Quaker-colored gadabout!"