“Why are you in such a hurry, Cora?” asked Bess Robinson, as she tucked back a straying lock of brown hair. “It’s too perfect a day to do anything in a hurry—even run a car.”
“Bess doesn’t believe in doing anything in a hurry,” lazily droned her sister Belle, from the rear seat. “That’s why she’s so fat.”
“Don’t dare use that objectionable word!” stormed Bess, turning about so suddenly that she sent Cora’s elbow against the plunger of the horn, thereby producing a sudden blast.
“Oh!” exclaimed Bess. “Did we run into something again?”
“Again?” demanded Cora. “Come, I like that—not! We haven’t run into anything yet.”
“That chicken,” murmured Belle, even more lazily. “Yes?”
“Was a good fifty feet out of danger!” declared Cora indignantly.
“And what of the child?”
“That never was in danger. I didn’t see him—her or it—until we had passed. But the child—gender unknown—was playing in the dust beside the road. Queer how mothers can let them.”
“Probably the mother didn’t know a thing about it,” said Bess, who had discovered that she was the sole cause of the needless alarm in regard to the horn’s blast. “One can’t be always on the lookout.”