“Wal, I reckon I was givin’ a pooty fair imitation of flyin’, myself. But ’twa’n’t no business for a man of my age and habits to be in—I see that before we’d gone a hundred yards. And now see what’s happened to the pair of us—me and the machine both! And to think that I gave something to boot in makin’ the trade!”
“Threw in a horse, too, didn’t you?” queried Lon.
Mr. Haskins grinned wryly. “I sure did! That ain’t what hurts, though. The hoss—wal, I didn’t give no guarantee with him; but the money—say, that was real money, and I might as well ’a’ thrown it to the birds! And what have I got to show for it? Jest a junk heap in a ditch that ain’t wuth haulin’ home.”
Poke, who had been peering at the motor, straightened his back, seemed to be about to speak, changed his intention, and moved slowly away from the car. As he passed Step, he touched his arm. Sam in a moment more saw the two, with their heads together, conferring earnestly.
Lon made a leisurely circuit of the wreck, inspecting it from all points of view. Mr. Haskins sat down on the ground, and resumed investigation of his contusions.
“When they get through stickin’ court plaster on me, I’ll be wuss off than a tattooed man in a show,” he announced gloomily. “Talk about barbed wire! ’Tain’t got nothin’ on a good, healthy thorn bush, when you dive in, head fust!”
“We’ll take you to a doctor,” Lon offered. “Whenever you’re ready we’ll start.”
Mr. Haskins, with a groan or two, gained his feet.
Poke left Step, and hurried to Sam.
“Say, got any money?” he whispered. “Quick! Let me have all you’ve got!”