its running board and fender badly battered. While the young fellow of
the runabout examined to see what further damage his car might have
sustained, the prosperous-looking gentleman was speeding up the
highway, chuckling over his own car's escape from injury.

I asked the man of the Ford if his engine had suffered. No, he thought
it was all right; he would crank up and see. Good! She started off
with a clutter, and he asked me if I wanted to ride. I had not far to
go, but gladly accepted, for I was rather struck with this young
fellow's grip on himself. It took self-control to avoid making the air
blue with abuse. The way that big fellow had hurried on, leaving the
runabout in trouble, was certainly not on the square, to say the
least.

A turn in the road brought a fresh surprise. There was the touring
car, a hundred yards ahead, standing in the middle of the road, hood
up, and the big man peering into the engine. There was room to pass,
and I wondered what the man at the wheel in the runabout would do.
Would the little car rattle past with its damaged fender? It would be
only human nature to sing out some sort of a taunt: "Thought you were
in a hurry!" or "Don't block the road!"--and yet this young fellow did
not seem to be that kind. His self-control during the incident back
there in the road made me expect something different, and I was not
disappointed. The runabout did pass, but stopped ten yards ahead, and
my companion got out.

"Engine trouble? Need any help?"

The big fellow's face was a puzzle, as he looked up with a worried
grin and mopped his brow with a grease-smeared hand. Yes, there was