“Yes!”
“Praise be ter Gawd fer stayin’ our han’! Praise be ter Gawd!”
“Yes, you had better give praise. I am not going to tell you what I think of you for attempting this terrible thing. You know yourselves how wicked and foolish you are.”
Just then a light shot across the yard and in a moment the red car belonging to the count came whizzing into view.
“Now you may go, all but you, and you, and you!” indicating the ones who had been so glib about the kerosene and their rights, and the one who had known so well that God would not have sent an angel without even a razor.
The men pointed out tremblingly obeyed, coming up to the steps as though drawn by a magnet. The rest of the mob simply disappeared, dodging behind the box bushes and losing themselves in the convenient labyrinth.
That little red car had brought over six men: the count and his secretary, Mr. Carter, Mr. Sutton, Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley. Hardly a word had been spoken on that ride. The count had pushed the powerful engine to its utmost ability and it had taken the car through heavy mud, up hills and down dales, through mire and ruts with a speed truly remarkable.
“Some car!” remarked Lewis.
“Some!” grunted Bill.
Mr. Carter’s mouth was close set and his eyes looked like steel points. All of his girls were dear to him but Helen had always seemed closer for some reason; perhaps her very wilfulness was the reason. And now as he thought of her in danger, it seemed as though he could single-handed tackle any number of foes. He prayed continuously as he stood on the running-board of that speeding car, but his prayer was perhaps not very devout: