“Wilson only started golf this year, and the only game he can beat me at is hanging up pictures,” insisted Harding.  “He stands six-foot-four, and weighs about one hundred and fifty.  He looks like a pair of compasses, but he’s all right, and we must go up and see him.  Do you know the road, Smith?”

“Every foot of it.”

“How far is it?”

“About forty miles.”

“Good!” declared the magnate.  “I’ll wire Wilson we’ll be there to-morrow.  We’ll fill up the buzz wagon, take an early start, and put in a whole day at it.  Smith shall be chief shawfer, and the Kid and I will take turns when he gets tired.”

And we did.  We started at seven o’clock with a party consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Harding, Miss Harding, Chilvers and his wife, Miss Dangerfield, Carter, and myself.

There are many hills intervening and some stretches of indifferent road, but we figured we should make the run in two hours or less—­but we didn’t.

The few early risers gave us a cheer as we rolled away from the club house and careened along the winding path which leads to the main road.  The dew yet lay on the grass, and little lakes of fog hung over the fair green.  It was a perfect spring morning, and the ozone-charged air had an exhilarating effect as we cleaved through it.

Miss Harding was in the seat with me.  I don’t imagine this exactly pleased Carter, but it suited me to a dot.  My lovely companion was in splendid spirits.

“Now, Jacques Henri,” she said to me in French, pretending that I was a professional chauffeur, “you are on trial.  Unless you show marked proficiency we shall dispense with your services.”

“And if I do?” I inquired.

“Then you may consider yourself retained,” she laughed.

“For life?” I boldly asked.

I was so rattled at this rather broad insinuation that I swung out of the road and struck a rut, which gave the car a thorough shaking.

“If that’s the way you drive you will be lucky if you’re not discharged before we reach Oak Cliff,” Miss Harding declared, and I did not dare look in her eyes to see if she were offended or not.

For the following minutes I attended strictly to business.  The steering gear and other operating parts were a bit stiff on account of newness, but I soon acquired the “feel” of them, and we ate up the first ten miles in seventeen minutes.

We were following a sinuous brook toward its source, now skirting its quiet depths along the edge of reedy meadows, and then chasing it into the hills where it boiled and complained as it dashed and spumed amid rocks and boulders.

“Hold on there, Smith!” shouted Harding from the rear seat in the tonneau.

“Stop, Jacques Henri!” ordered my fair employer, and then I dared look into her smiling eyes.

“I want to cut some of those willow switches,” explained Harding, as the car stopped.