“What I said ain’t nothin’ o’ the sort, eh? Wal, it’ll go easier with yer if ye ain’t forgot the politeness ye l’arned in early youth. Back there”—he waved a brown finger in the air—“ye scorched; own up now!” His words were jerked out with incisive emphasis. “Own up now!”
“Maybe I did go a little fast,” admitted Tom, hesitatingly, “but—but—here! What are you doing?”
The countryman, without waiting for anything further, had calmly stepped on the running board. He leaned over to open the door.
Next instant the highly-indignant chauffeur saw him climbing into the car.
“The court-house ain’t so very far,” announced the unexpected passenger, calmly seating himself on the rear cushions. “Cheer up, young feller. ’Twon’t be more’n fifteen dollars; an’ if ye hain’t got it the county allus takes good keer o’ the machine till ye comes out.”
“This is a pretty kettle of fish!” cried Tom, hotly.
“Some o’ the prettiest fish I ever see has been ketched right around here, son. But don’t let yer machine git rusty. Even machine oil has riz in price.”
Tom was too disgusted to make any rejoinder. He turned his head, to stare hard into a pair of twinkling gray eyes. An awkward silence followed.
“Did you mistake this for a sightseeing car?” demanded Tom, at length. “Please step right out!”
The other grinned complacently.