ursing his bruised elbow, irritably
conscious of his resemblance to an emerging chimney-sweep. "I don't
habitually swear," he said, "but I'd got to the point when something
_had_ to explode."

"Oh," she said, "don't mind me!" Then mirth conquered and she broke
forth suddenly into a laugh that seemed to set the whole place aquiver
with a musical contagion. They both laughed in concert, while the bull
pawed the ground and sent forth a rumbling bellow of affront and
challenge.

She was the first to recover. "You _did_ look so funny!" she gasped.

"I can believe it," he agreed, making a vicious dab at his smudged brow.
"The possibilities of a motor for comedy are simply stupendous."

She came closer and looked curiously at the quiescent monster--at the
steamer-trunk strapped on the carrier and the bulging portmanteau
peeping over the side of the tonneau. "Is it broken?"

"Merely on strike, I imagine. I think it resents the quality of the
gasoline I got at Charlottesville. I can't decide whether it needs a
monkey-wrench or a mustard-plaster. To tell the truth, it has been out
of commission and I'm not much of an expert, though I can study it out
in time. Are we far from the village?"

"About a mile and a half."

"I'll have to have it towed after me. The immediate point is my traps. I
wonder if there is likely to be a team passing."

"I'm afraid it's not too certain," answered the girl, and now he noted
the liquid modulation, with its slightly questioning accent, charmingly
Southern. "There is no livery, but there is a negro who meets the train
sometimes. I can send him if you like."

"You're very good," said Valiant, as she turned away, "and I'll be
enormously obliged. Oh--and if you see a white dog, don't be frightened
if he tries to follow you. He's perfectly kind."

She looked back momentarily.

"He--he always follows people he likes, you see--"

"Thank you," she said. The tone had now a hint--small, yet
perceptible--of aloofness. "I'm not in the least afraid of dogs." And
with a little nod, she swung briskly on up the Red Road.

John Valiant stood staring after her till she had passed from view
around a curve. "Oh, glory!" he muttered. "To begin by shaking your fist
at her and end by making her wonder if you aren't trying to be fresh!
You poor, profane, floundering dolt!"

After a time he discarded his "jumper" and contrived a make-shift
toilet. "What a type!" he said to himself. "Corn-flower eyes and a