“Glad to have it,” said Miss Sinclair, trying to suit her English to the intelligence of the plain people.

“But no monkey business?” said the gentleman from the country.  “No half-price rung on me later?  No extry for live stock?”

“One dollar, and no charge for rooster,” said Grace in her most matter-of-fact tones.

From a capacious and inner pocket the stranger produced a venerable wallet, and from the venerable wallet a dollar bill.

“A lot of money for just whizzing through the air,” he remarked genially, handing it to her.  “I could fall off my barn for nothing, and as like as not be less hurt than when you’ve got through with me!”

“I’ll get you back all right,” said Miss Sinclair.

The stranger showed symptoms of wanting to climb into the tonneau by way of the mud-guard; and his enthusiasm was unbounded when he was directed to the door.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed, seating himself luxuriously on the cushions.  “Gosh! but they’ve got these things down fine!  I never read the Poultry Gazette of a Saturday night without saying to myself, what next?  Every day some new way of being killed, or some old way improved!  My! but this is the dandiest of all!”

“There isn’t the least danger if people are careful,” said Grace, gazing out of the corner of her eye at three very loud and offensively jocular young men, their straw hats tilted at the back of their heads, who had also been arrested by the notice on the basket.  They were flashily dressed, with race-tout written all over them, and their keen, impudent, tallowy faces filled her with sudden misgiving.

“Let’s try the old hell-wagon,” said one.

“If people are only careful,” repeated Grace forlornly.

“I dug four automobeelists out of a ditch once,” observed the rural gentleman.  “One had his leg broke, and the others were scratched something awful—­but perhaps they weren’t careful!”

“Say, we want to see beautiful Stackport,” said one of the touts, clambering into the front seat beside Grace.

“Get out of that and give your place to a handsomer man,” cried another, trying to pull him out by the legs.

The scuffle ended in the triumph of number one, who turned to Grace and addressed her in a hoarse, ironical voice.

“Never you mind them,” he said.  “They’re only a pair of cheap skates who’ve won out a little on the track, and are blowing it in.”

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” exclaimed another, poking his fingers through the bars at the rooster.

“Wind her up, young chafer!” exclaimed the third.

“The fare is one dollar in advance,” said Grace Sinclair, whose heart was sinking within her.