rned Dunston
Porter, coldly.

"I didn't block the road!"

"You certainly did. If we had run into you, it would have been your
fault."

"Nonsense! You passed me on the wrong side."

"Because you didn't give me room to pass on the other side."

"And your horn scared my horse."

"I don't see how that is my fault. Your horse ought to be used to
auto-horns by this time."

"You've scraped all the paint off my carriage, and I had it painted
only last week," went on the money-lender, warming up. "It's an
outrage how you auto fellows think you own the whole road!"

"I won't discuss the matter now, Mr. Poole," answered Dunston Porter,
stiffly. "I think it was your fault entirely. But if you think
otherwise, come and see me when I get back from this trip, which will
be in four days." And without waiting for more words, Dave's uncle
started up the touring car, and Aaron Poole was soon left far behind.

"If he isn't a peach!" murmured Roger, slangily. "It's easy to see
where Nat gets his meanness from. He is simply a chip off the old
block."

"He's a pretty big chip," returned Phil, dryly.

"I don't see how he can blame us," said Dave. "We simply couldn't pass
him on the left. If we had tried, we'd have gone in the ditch sure.
And the scraping we did to his buggy amounts to next to nothing."

"I am not afraid of what he'll do," said Dunston Porter. "A couple of
dollars will fix up those scratches, and if he is so close-fisted I'll
foot the bill. But I'll give him a piece of my mind for blocking the
road."

"But his horse was frightened, Uncle Dunston," said Laura.

"A little, yes, but if Poole hadn't got scared himself he might have
drawn closer to the side of the road. I think he was more frightened
than the horse."

"He certainly was," declared Phil. "When we scraped the buggy his face
got as white as chalk, and he almost dropped the lines."

"He'll hate all of us worse than ever for this," was Dave's comment.

"I am not afraid of him," answered the uncle.

On and on sped the big touring car, and soon the stirring incident on
the road was, for the time being, forgotten. Crumville had been left
far behind, and now they passed through one pretty village after
another. On the broad, level stretches Dunston Porter allowed the boys
to "spell" him at the wheel, for each knew how to run an automobile.

"Twenty miles more to Ryeport!" cried Dave, as they came to a
crossroads and read a signboard.

"And it's just