The Honorable Percival

								

at the pavilion. Not waiting for her to finish, he rushed her into the
waiting motor and implored the chauffeur to get them to the dock with
all possible speed.
He was aghast at his own folly. It was incredible that he should have
allowed himself to drift into such an awkward situation. They might not
be missed until after the steamer sailed, in which case it was quite
possible that the erratic captain would refuse to put back. The man
might even make capital of the incident and claim that his daughter was
compromised. What if he should demand satisfaction? What satisfaction
would be due in the circumstances? Percival felt the hot blood rush to
his head.
"Can't you speed her up a bit?" he urged, his elbows on the front seat
and his eyes on the small watch encased in the leather strap about his
wrist.
"Yes, do!" cried Bobby, excitedly. "I love to go fast!"
"Do you realize," asked Percival, assuming his sternest manner in order
to impress her with the gravity of the situation, "that we stand a very
good chance of being left?"
"I can't imagine a nicer place to be left in," said Bobby, adding
between bounces, "besides, you needn't--look so cross--at me. It is all
your--own fault."
The chauffeur at this point felt it incumbent upon him to avert a
quarrel, so he offered the cheering assurance that it was only four
forty-five, and he could get most anywhere in fifteen minutes. But even
as he spoke there was an ominous report, followed by the unmistakable
sound of escaping air.
"Oh, I say!" cried Percival in tones of horror, "not a puncture?"
"That's whut!" said the chauffeur, who had jammed on the brakes, and was
now ruefully inspecting a back wheel.
"Can't stop for that!" cried Percival, impatiently. "Every second
counts, my man. Doesn't matter how much we bounce so long as we get
there."
"But I ain't goin' to ruin my tire."
"What the deuce do I care about your confounded old tire? I'll pay for
it. I'll pay you anything you ask if you get me to the dock on time."
But after bumping furiously from cobblestone to cobblestone, the
chauffeur rebelled and positively declined to go farther until the tire
was changed.
"Then it's up to us to catch a streetcar!" cried Bobby, "What luck! Here
comes one now. They only run once a week."
"Street-car? Oh, you mean a tram. To be sure! Hadn't thought of it.
Shall we run for it?"
Thrusting a gold piece into the hand of the chauffeur, he made a
fifty-yard dash for the corner that did credit to his early training.
But the imperious signal with which he hailed the car was not heeded.
Instead, a fat conductor leaned from the rear platform and obligingly
volunteered the information that he was on the wrong corner.
"Intolerable insolence!" muttered Percival to Bobby, who had just come
up. "What are you laughing at?"
"At your face when the car went by. Here comes a wagon. Quick! Ask the