About this time the chauffeur came prowling into view. He was too deeply shocked to emit any language of the garage. He was too deeply shocked to achieve any comment more brilliant than:
"That mess don't look much like it ever was a taxicab, does it?"
The young man shrugged his shoulders, and stared up and down the long street for another. The young woman looked sorrowfully at the wreck, and queried:
"Do you think you can make it go?"
The chauffeur glanced her way, more in pity for her whole sex than in scorn for this one type, as he mumbled:
"Make it go? It'll take a steam winch a week to unwrap it from that lamppost."
The young man apologized.
"I oughtn't to have yelled at you."
He was evidently a very nice young man. Not to be outdone in courtesy, the chauffeur retorted:
"I hadn't ought to have turned me head."