“He was driving too fast,” Loring was saying, “but I shouldn’t have gone into the street alone. I told Wattles I’d stay there until he got back.”
“Wattles? Is that the man who pushes you around? Well, what’s become of him?”
“I don’t know.” Loring shook his head perplexedly. It wasn’t like the faithful Wattles to remain away at such a time. “He went across to the drug store. Perhaps he’s over there.” Loring nodded across the street.
“I’ll see if I can find him.” Clif wasn’t averse to seeing how the car had fared, and how badly “Poppy’s” store had suffered. “I’ll pull you up on the sidewalk first, though.” He did so, not without difficulty, and started away. “I’ll be back in a second,” he called. “If I can’t find him I’ll push you home.”
“Thanks, but he’s sure to be here soon,” answered Loring.
Clif had to push hard to get within viewing distance of the car since by now all Freeburg—at least, all of male Freeburg—had reached the scene. The car’s driver and the constable and “Poppy” were in consultation. “Poppy” was calmer, but there was that in his handsome, brigandish countenance which told Clif that he would suffer no financial loss by reason of the accident. Underfoot Sunday papers ruffled, and golden oranges and glistening apples were being salvaged by willing hands. “Poppy’s” front and side windows were ruins, for the heavy car had struck fairly at the angle of sidewalk and entrance. The car itself was sadly damaged, although on close inspection Clif decided that it had got off pretty well. Collision with the iron post had simultaneously demolished post, and car bumper, and the subsequent impact had crumpled in the radiator, and torn away one mudguard. Also one wheel was broken. The constable began to look for witnesses and Clif edged swiftly toward the outer rim of the throng. The missing Wattles was not to be seen. He hurried back across the street, now fairly choked by automobiles, and saw a man in a black brilliantine coat conversing with Loring Deane.
“I wonder if you’d mind pushing me back to the drugstore,” said Loring as Clif joined him. “Poor old Wattles has fainted, he says.”
The drug clerk assented, his gaze darting curiously across the street. “Yeah, he was just going out when the smash came, and he dropped in a heap. We got him ’round all right in a jiffy, but he’s still sort of wobbly. I’ll run across and see what’s happened.”
Wattles was a woebegone looking object when they reached the drug store. Seated decorously erect in a chair, his derby clasped fixedly on his knees, he was the color of yellow parchment and his long face was the unhappiest thing Clif had ever seen. Even when the wheel chair rolled toward him Wattles’s gloom failed to lighten. He moistened his lips with an effort and: