“Scratch up a few rocks,” he called to Grace, doggedly continuing his work, and keeping a careful eye on the screws he was taking out.

She got a dozen or so, and passed them over to him in a piece of chamois leather taken from the tool kit.  He caught it up and ran for the fence, the enemy retiring precipitately out of range.  But if he made no bull’s-eyes he had a pleasant sense, for a moment or two, of dominating the situation.  Then he returned hurriedly to the car.

“I wonder if you and I couldn’t push her around,” he said to Grace.  “They’ll be back again in a minute, and then it will be altogether too sunny on this side.”  The pair of them laid on to the spokes of the driving-wheels, and with a yeo-heave-yeo managed to head the Despardoux in the direction of its native Stackport.  Then the farmer settled to work again, Grace scurried about searching for ammunition, and the three young touts rained shower on shower of stones.  If ever delicate adjustments were made under difficulties, it was on that Despardoux on that fateful occasion.  The only alleviation of an otherwise intolerable situation was the magnificent behavior of the contact-box, which now, right side up and readjusted, showed every symptom of meaning to do its duty.

It was anxiously put to the test, and, on the engine being started, the farmer and Grace were rewarded by the chippetty, chippetty, chippetty, chippetty of perfect sparking and combustion.

The farmer rolled back the enemy, recovered Grace’s coat and his own rooster, seated himself at the wheel, gave the girl a hand in, threw in his clutches and speeded up.

“Slow down!” cried Grace.  “Slow down, please.  I want to leave their horrid money on the road.”

“Not on your life,” said the farmer.  “That three dollars belongs to the St. John’s Home for Incurable Children!”

“You oughtn’t to know anything about the St. John’s Home,” said Grace.

“Oh, I forgot—­I don’t,” he retorted brazenly.  “Only that three dollars is going to stay on board this car.  If anybody ever earned three dollars by the sweat of their brow I guess it was you and me!”

Grace put her hands up to his head and deliberately drew off his hat, drew off his red wig, drew off his red whiskers, and tossed them all back into the tonneau.

“Are you sorry I came?” said Coal Oil Johnny.

“There are some emotions that can not be put into words,” she answered.  “I won’t try to say anything.  I can’t.  But if I should ever seem unkind, or distant, or forgetful, or anything but the joy of your whole future existence—­just you say contact-box, and I’ll melt!”

Jones

I

I could have taken “No” like a man, and would have gone away decently and never bothered her again.  I told her so straight out in the first angry flush of my rejection—­but this string business, with everything left hanging in the air, so to speak, made a fellow feel like thirty cents.