“Actually, yes, but I’m not trying to put that old one over on you. It’s because they always have the instinct, when any dangerous object approaches, to run toward their home—their coop, which is often just opposite where they are eating. Now you watch these chickens from now on. They’ll be picking peacefully on the side of the road opposite the farmyard. Our car will come along, and instead of moving a few feet farther away from their home, and so escaping altogether, they will wait until the car is near and then suddenly decide to run for home—the longest way out of danger. Lots of times they’ll start, as this last one did, and then find, when they’re nearly half way over, that they can’t make it. Then they start to run ahead of the car and of course nearly always they’re overtaken and killed.”
“Well, that’s an ingenious explanation, anyhow,” I said.
“They lose their heads and then they lose their heads,” he added.
“Franklin!” I exclaimed reproachfully and then turning to Speed added: “Don’t let that make you nervous, Speed. Be calm. We must get him to East Aurora, even though he will do these trying things. Show that you are above such difficulties, Speed. Never let a mere attempt at humor, a beggarly jest, cause you to lose control of the car.”
Speed never even smiled.
Just here we stopped for gas and oil. We were unexpectedly entertained by a store clerk who seemed particularly anxious to air his beliefs and his art knowledge[knowledge]. He was an interesting young man, very, with keen blue eyes, light hair, a sharp nose and chin—and decidedly intelligent and shrewd.
“How far is it to East Aurora from here?” inquired Franklin.
“Oh, about fifteen miles,” answered the youth. “You’re not from around here, eh?”
“No,” said Franklin, without volunteering anything further.
“Not bound for Elbert Hubbard’s place, are you?”