“Once is enough for me,” I said.

I turned my attention to the automobile, and as I started toward it Miss Harding intercepted me.

“That was very brave of you, Jacques Henri,” she said, offering both of her hands.  “You are an excellent chauffeur, and we all thank you.”

“Don’t praise me too much or I shall be tempted to demand an exorbitant salary,” I declared.  “I’m glad I had the sense to think of it in time.  Let’s see if much damage was done to the machine.”

It was a happy moment for John Henry Smith, and I would tackle a bull every day under the same circumstances if I knew that there was waiting for me the reward of such a glance from those eyes and the clasp of those little hands.

The forward lamps were smashed beyond repair and several rods were slightly bent, but aside from these trifles I could not see that any damage had been done.  Mr. Harding and the others joined us.

“I suppose somebody owns that bull,” he said.  “Do you happen to know who runs this farm, Smith?”

I had no idea.  There was no farmhouse in sight, and Harding was in a quandary.  He thought a moment and then produced one of his cards.

“Write this for me, Smith.  My hand is too shaky.  Let’s see,” and then he dictated the following:  “While playing golf I was attacked by this bull.  Send bill for bull to Woodvale Club.”

“I should say that was all right,” he said, reading it carefully.  “It is short and does not go into unnecessary details.”

We tied the card to the animal’s horns, and I have an idea the owner of that unfortunate beast will be mystified to account for the fate which befel him.  Having repaired the fence as best we could we resumed our journey to Oak Cliff, and Mr. Harding was content to remain in his seat until we reached there.

Later in the day Chilvers drew a diagram of this exploit on the back of a menu card, and I paste it in here as a droll memento of this incident.

[Illustration]

Chilvers attempted to explain to Harding and the rest of us that the collision between the auto and the bull resulted in “pulled or hooked shot,” the bull taking the place of a golf ball and the machine serving as the face of the driver.  It is quite accurate as showing the relative positions of the various factors, but I should not term it an art product.

“I am familiar with the road from here to Oak Cliff,” said Miss Harding when we had gone a mile or so.  “You may rest, Jacques Henri, and I’ll take your place.”

She did so, and handled the big car with the skill of an expert.  I did not talk to her for fear of distracting her attention from the task she had assumed.  I was contented to watch her, to be near her and to know that I had had the rare good fortune to do an unexpected turn for one who was near and dear to her.

I will tell of our day in Oak Cliff in my next entry.