The Rise of Roscoe Paine | Page 8

they have become since. Now the average pedestrian of common-sense jumps first and looks afterwards.
However, I jumped in time, and stood still to watch the car as it went by. But it did not go by--not then. Its speed slackened as it approached and it came to a halt on the bridge beside me. A big car; an aristocratic car; a machine of pomp and price and polish, such as Denboro saw but seldom. It contained three persons--a capped and goggled chauffeur on the front seat, and a young fellow and a girl in the tonneau. They attracted my attention in just that order--first the chauffeur, then the young fellow, and, last of all, the girl.
It was the chauffeur who hailed me. He leaned across the upholstery beside him and, still holding the wheel, said:
"Say, Bill, what's the quickest way to get to Bayport?"
Now my name doesn't happen to be Bill and just then I objected to the re-christening. At another time I might have appreciated the joke and given him the information without comment. But this morning I didn't feel like joking. My dissatisfaction with the world in general included automobilists who made common folks get out of their way, and I was resentful.
"I should say that you had picked about as quick a way as any," I answered.
The chauffeur didn't seem to grasp the true inwardness of this brilliant bit.
"Aw, what--" he stammered. "Say, what--look here, I asked you--"
Then the young man in the tonneau took charge of the conversation. He was a very young man, with blond hair and a silky mustache, and his clothes fitted him as clothes have no right to fit--on Cape Cod.
"That'll do, Oscar," he ordered. Then, turning to me, he said:
"See here, my man, we want to go to Bayport."
I was not his man, and wouldn't have been for something. The chauffeur had irritated me, but he irritated me more. I didn't like him, his looks, his clothes, and, particularly, his manner. Therefore, because I didn't feel like answering, I showed my independence by remaining silent.
"What's the matter?" he demanded, impatiently. "Are you deaf? I say we want to go to Bayport."
A newspaper joke which I had recently read came to my mind. "Very well," I said, "you have my permission."
It was a rude thing to say, and not even original. I don't attempt to excuse it. In fact, I was sorry as soon as I had said it. It had its effect. The young man turned red. Then he laughed aloud.
"Well, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "What have we here? A humorist, I do believe! Mabel, we've discovered a genuine, rural humorist. Another David Harum, by Jove! Look at him!"
The girl in the tonneau swept aside her veil and looked, as directed. And I looked at her. The face that I saw was sweet and refined and delicate, a beautiful young face, the face of a lady, born and bred. All this I saw and realized at a glance; but what I was most conscious of at the time was the look in the dark eyes as they surveyed me from head to foot. Indifference was there, and contemptuous amusement; she didn't even condescend to smile, much less speak. Under that look my self-importance shrank until the yellow dog with which I had compared myself loomed as large as an elephant. She might have looked that way at some curious and rather ridiculous bug, just before calling a servant to step on it.
The young man laughed again. "Isn't it a wonder, Mabel?" he asked. "The native wit on his native heath! Reuben--pardon me, your name is Reuben, isn't it?--now that you've had your little joke, would you condescend to tell us the road which we should take to reach Bayport in the shortest time? Would you oblige us to that extent?"
The young lady smiled at this. "Victor," she said, "how idiotic you are!"
I agreed with her. Idiot was one of the terms, the mildest, which I should have applied to that young man. I wanted very much to remove him from that car by what Lute would call the scruff of the neck. But most of all, just then, I wanted to be alone, to see the last of the auto and its occupants.
"First turn to the right, second to the left," I said, sullenly.
"Thank you, Reuben," vouchsafed the young man. "Here's hoping that your vegetables are fresher than your jokes. Go ahead, Oscar."
The chauffeur threw in the clutch and the car buzzed up the road, turning the corner at full speed. There was a loose board projecting from the bridge just under my feet. As a member--though an inactive one--of the Village Improvement Society I should have trodden it back into place. I didn't; I kicked it into the brook.
Then I