“Rot!” retorted the Widow Weld, inelegantly.

Had you lived in Chippewa all this explanation would have been unnecessary.  In that terrifying way small towns have, it was known that of all codfish aristocracy the Widow Weld was the piscatorial pinnacle.

When Chug Scaritt first met the Weld girl she was standing out in the middle of the country road at ten-thirty P.M., her arms outstretched and the blood running down one cheek.  He had been purring along the road toward home, drowsy and lulled by the motion and the April air.  His thoughts had been drowsy, too, and disconnected.

“If I can rent Bergstrom’s place next door when their lease is up I’ll knock down the partition and put in auto supplies.  There’s big money in ’em....  Guess if it keeps on warm like this we can plant the garden next week....  That was swell cake Ma had for supper....  What’s that in the road!  What’s!—­”

Jammed down the foot-brake.  Jerked back the emergency.  A girl standing in the road.  A dark mass in the ditch by the road-side.  He was out of his car.  He recognized her as the Weld girl.

“’S’matter?”

“In the ditch.  She’s hurt.  Quick!”

“Whose car?” Chug was scrambling down the banks.

“Hatton’s.  Angie Hatton’s.”

“Gosh!”

Over by the fence, where she had been flung, Angie Hatton was found sitting up, dizzily, and saying, “Betty!  Betty!” in what she supposed was a loud cry but which was really a whisper.

“I’m all right, dear.  I’m all right.  Oh, Angie, are you—­”

She was cut and bruised, and her wrist had been broken.  The two girls clung to each other, wordlessly.  The thing was miraculous, in view of the car that lay perilously tipped on its fender.

“You’re a lucky bunch,” said Chug.  “Who was driving?”

“I was,” said Angie Hatton.

“It wasn’t her fault,” the Weld girl put in, quickly.  “We were coming from Winnebago.  She’s a wonderful driver.  We met a farm-wagon coming toward us.  One of those big ones.  The middle of the road.  Perhaps he was asleep.  He didn’t turn out.  We thought he would, of course.  At the last minute we had to try for the ditch.  It was too steep.”

“Anyway, you’re nervy kids, both of you.  I’ll have you both home in twenty minutes.  We’ll have to leave five thousand dollars’ worth of car in the road till morning.  It’ll be all right.”

He did get them home in twenty minutes and the five thousand dollars’ worth of car was still lying repentantly in the ditch when morning came.  Old Man Hatton himself came into the garage to thank Chug the following day.  Chug met him in overalls, smudge-faced as he was.  Old Man Hatton put out his hand.  Chug grinned and looked at his own grease-grimed paw.

“That’s all right,” said Old Man Hatton, and grasped it firmly.  “Want to thank you.”

“That’s all right,” said Chug.  “Didn’t do a thing.”