“Bughouse?”

“Oh, that’s what the Wellmouth post-office gang call him.  Kind of a joke ‘tis.  And say, this is kind of a joke, too, my luggin’ you ’way over here, ain’t it, eh?  Haw, haw!”

Mr. Bangs’ attempt at a laugh was feeble.

“But what shall I do now?” he asked, anxiously.

“Well, that’s the question, ain’t it?  Hum . . . hum . . . let’s see.  Sorry I can’t take you back to the Centre myself.  Any other night I’d be glad to, but there’s a beans and brown-bread supper and sociable up to the meetin’ house this evenin’ and I promised the old woman—­Mrs. Pulcifer, I mean—­that I’d be on hand.  I’m a little late as ’tis.  Hum . . . let’s see . . .  Why, I tell you.  See that store over on the corner there?  That’s Erastus Beebe’s store and Ras is a good friend of mine.  He’s got an extry horse and team and he lets ’em out sometimes.  You step into the store and ask Ras to hitch up and drive you back to the Centre.  Tell him I sent you.  Say you’re a friend of Raish Pulcifer’s and that I said treat you right.  Don’t forget:  ‘Raish says treat me right.’  You say that to Ras and you’ll be treated right.  Yes, sir!  If Ras ain’t in the store he’ll be in his house right back of it.  Might as well get out here, Mr. Bangs, because there’s a hill just ahead and I kind of like to get a runnin’ start for it.  Shall I help you with the suitcase?  No, well, all right . . .  Sorry you made the mistake, but we’re all liable to make ’em some time or another.  Eh? haw, haw!”

Poor Mr. Bangs clambered from the automobile almost as wearily and stiffly as he had climbed into it.  The engine of the Pulcifer car had not stopped running so Raish was not obliged to get out and crank.  He took a fresh grip on the steering wheel and looked down upon his late passenger.

“Well, good-night, Mr. Bangs,” he said.

“Good-night—­ah—­good-night, Mr. Pulcifer.  I’m very much obliged to you, I am indeed.  I’m sorry my mistake made you so much trouble.”

“Oh, that’s all right, that’s all right.  Don’t say a word . . .  Well—­er—­good-night.”

“Good-night, sir . . . good-night.”

But still the little car did not start.  It’s owner’s next remark was explanatory of the delay.

“Course I hope you and I’ll meet again, Mr. Bangs,” said Raish.  “May see you in Wellmouth, you know.  Still, such things are—­er—­ kind of uncertain and—­er—­sendin’ bills is a nuisance, so perhaps ’twould be better—­er—­easier for both of us—­if we settled that little matter of ours right now.  Eh?”

“I beg your pardon.  Little matter?  I’m afraid I don’t quite—­”

“Oh, that little matter of the three dollars for fetchin’ you over.  Course it don’t amount to nothin’, but I kind of like to get them little things off my mind, don’t you?  Eh?”

Mr. Bangs was very much “fussed.”  He hurriedly dragged forth the big pocketbook.