“For vy you call it me names?” demanded the passenger, indignantly, just then bursting out of the motor-car. He was a bushy-headed man with owl-like spectacles and evidently the possessor of a querulous temper. “He is most insulting! Undt he is the worst driver I ever had. Dumbskull!”
“You’re the Old Boy, all right, but not the one I meant was in that engine,” growled the chauffeur sullenly. “You are a crazy nuisance——”
Tom had got out, reached the head of the car, and by leaning down the ditch side with care, he shut off the thumping engine. He now swung to look at the muttering chauffeur. The latter was ill-favored of feature and betrayed frankly that his mental condition had been brought about by indulgence in liquor.
“You work for Peltin Brothers, at Norwalk,” Tom said sharply. “I’ve seen you before. This car from their garage?”
“He comes from it, the Norwalk garage,” interposed the strange man who was now rescuing sundry bundles and bags from the interior of the car. “The car, it is mine. My other driver leaf me in one lurch, you say, no? This fellow—ah-ha! He is a low-life. It is not gasoline he buy for the car, but bad whisky for himself.”
“Well, you are in a bad mess,” Tom said to the driver. “Come on and let’s see what we can do about getting her up on the road.”
The man shook his head vigorously. He backed away, up the side of the ditch. When he reached the sound road he started right away from there, only looking back over his shoulder to bawl:
“I wouldn’t help that crazy guy, or touch that car, for a farm down east with a pig on’t. You can have it, for all o’ me!”
“Well!” exclaimed Mary, in disgust.
“A fine dog that!” grumbled Tom ruefully.