"Do you take me for a fool?" demanded the wrathful Mr. Smith.
"Not me. But the best of us is careless sometimes. Well, are you sure you hunted all over the trap?"
"It wasn't on the seat, where I left it. It wouldn't have walked underneath, would it?"
"You never can tell," Nick said wisely. His mild eye, travelling round, encountered Tom's, and, struck by something in his child-like expression, examined him yet further. The end of an ivory crutch-handle, tucked tightly under Tom's arm, caught and held his glance, and for a moment he looked unutterable things. Then he bestowed his attention anew upon Pa Smith, moving a little so as to interpose his person between him and Tom. He felt a grateful dig as Tom slipped past him.
"It's funny how almost any one'll make mistakes," he said. Out of the tail of his eye he beheld a tall figure hurrying down the street towards the tree where Pa Smith's buggy stood in a patch of shade. "Say we go an' look in your buggy again for that little parrysole of yours, Mr. Smith. Then, if it ain't there, we'll go on up to the hotel an' get a little something to console you."
On the way to the buggy they met Tom sauntering back, apparently at peace with all men. He grinned at Nick cheerfully as they passed—Nick's gentle voice acting as accompaniment to the loud wailing of the bereaved Mr. Smith. It changed to blank amazement as they, neared the buggy, where an ivory-handle lay conspicuously protruding from under the seat.
"Well, I'm hanged!" said Mr. Smith.
"Didn't I tell you the best of us makes mistakes?" murmured Nick.
"It was great luck winning that race," said 'Possum next day, "But the one thing I never will understand to me dying moment is how you managed to make old Pa Smith lend you that umbrella, Mr. Macleod. An' he never raised a single objection, you said?"
"Not one," Tom answered. He paused. "I wonder," he said reflectively, "if that might be because I never asked him!"