“It is,” he confirmed, “with the woods full of amateur hunters. But I’ve known rabbits to live to a ripe old age. There was an old cottontail on Uncle Simeon’s place—”
“Please don’t joke. It’s fearfully serious for me. I’ve got to go ahead and face the girls.”
“Say the word and I’ll gird my gospel armour on—I mean my side-burns—and support you.”
“Yes: and what would our frisky chauffeur think of that! Gracious goodness! I forgot about him. What will he think about your disappearance if you run away now?”
“Leave him to me. I’ve got an argument for him.”
The native reappeared with the information that the truck was bemired and that the garage car in which one couple had arrived from Ashland (the motor-boat having broken down) was unable to pull it out unaided. Therefore, he told them, he would have to go to the rescue with his car.
Mr. Remsen produced a roll of greenbacks. “Have you any aversion to a ten-dollar bill?” he inquired.
“I ain’t never knowed one teh make me sick t’ my stommick yet,” confessed the native.
“Try this one,” said Remsen.
But the speeder withheld his hand. “What am I bein’ hired fer?”