"I saw it," said Todd, "and I was sure it wouldn't run over us. As you see, it didn't. Trust a baby carriage my love."
His humour, she informed him, was on a par with his driving. Also it was in poor taste at such a moment.
In time of danger, he replied, the brave man jests.
We were now in the park. We clipped a spray of leaves off a syringia bush. On a curve we slid in loose gravel to the wrong side.
"James Todd!"
"Yes, my dear?"
"Let me out! I decline to be butchered to make a holiday for a motormaniac."
"Don't talk to the motormaniac," said Todd.
She clutched a top support and gasped for breath, appalled at his audacity, or my speed, or both. In the straight reaches I could see the Burton Mammoth a quarter of a mile ahead. When it swung into the broad avenue that leads to the mountain, we were holding our own.
"You are following them—deliberately," said Mrs. Todd.