The freight train had passed, and Matt was leaning against the car and cudgeling his brains to think of some reason for the runabout’s acting as it did.
“It brought us out of Krug’s Corner as nice as you please,” he mused.
“Which is just the way it took us into Krug’s Corner,” proceeded the cowboy. “That’s the way the pesky thing works. First it lulls you into thinking it wouldn’t side-step, or buck-jump, or do anything else that was crooked or underhand for the world; then, when you think you’re all right, the runabout hauls off and hands you one. That’s the meanest kind of treachery—reaching out the glad hand only to land on you with a bunch of fives. There’s something human about that car, Matt.”
“Inhuman, I should say,” muttered Matt. “Well, it’s too much for me. Get in, Joe, and we’ll cross the track to those trees over there and rest up a little before we go on to the Malvern Country Club.”
“Damaged much, pard?”
“Jolted some, that’s all.”
“Same here. I landed in the road like a thousand of brick. This is my first experience with a crazy automobile, and you can bet your moccasins it will be the last. I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“There isn’t,” said Matt. “How can you put together a lot of machine and have anything but a senseless piece of mechanism?”
“I’m by, when you pin me right down, pard, but if this car isn’t locoed, then what’s the matter with it?”
“Something must go wrong.”