Part 3

It gave them all an uncanny feeling. The fish was left untouched, and for a moment silence reigned. Then Mr. Marten sprang from the table and ran to the front door. He got there just in time to see an automobile dashing around a corner and to hear a distinctly articulated imprecation in the well-known voice of Orville Thornton.

In evening clothes and bare-headed, Mr. Marten ran to Fortieth Street, and saw the vehicle approaching Sixth Avenue, its occupant still hurling strong language upon the evening air. Mr. Marten is something of a sprinter, although he has passed the fifty mark, and he resolved to solve the mystery. But before he had covered a third of the block in Fortieth Street he saw that he could not hope to overtake the runaway automobile, so he turned and ran back to the house, rightly surmising that the driver would circle the block.

When he reached his own doorstep, badly winded, he saw the automobile coming full tilt up the avenue from Thirty-ninth Street.

The rest of the diners were on the steps. “I think he’s coming,” he panted. “The driver must be intoxicated.”

A moment later they were treated to the spectacle of Orville, still hurling imprecations as he wildly gesticulated with both arms. Several boys were trying to keep up with the vehicle, but the pace was too swift. No policeman had yet discovered its rotary course.

As Orville came near the Marten mansion he cried “Ah-h-h!” in the relieved tones of one who has been falling for half an hour and at last sees ground in sight.

“What’s the matter?” shouted Mr. Marten wonderingly, as the carriage, instead of stopping, sped along the roadway.

“Sprained foot. Can’t walk. Auto out of order. Can’t stop. Good-by till I come round again. Awful hungry. Merry Christmas!”

“Ah ha!” said Joe Burton. “I told you that it was an accident. Sprained his foot and lost power over vehicle. I don’t see the connection, but let us be thankful that he isn’t under the wheels, with a broken neck, or winding round and round the axle.”

“But what’s to be done?” said Mrs. Marten. “He says he’s hungry.”

“Tell you what!” said Mr. Burton, in his explosive way. “Put some food on a plate, and when the carriage comes round again I’ll jump aboard, and he can eat as he travels.”

“He loves purée of celery,” said Mrs. Marten.

“Very well. Put some in a clean lard-pail or a milk-pail. Little out of the ordinary, but so is the accident, and he can’t help his hunger. Hunger is no disgrace. I didn’t think he’d ever eat soup again, to tell the truth. I was making up my mind whether a wreath or a harp would be better.”

“Oh, you are so morbid, Mr. Burton,” said his wife, while Mrs. Marten told the maid to get a pail and put some purée into it.

When Thornton came around again he met Mr. Marten near Thirty-ninth Street.

“Open the door, Orville, and Joe Burton will get aboard with some soup. You must be starved.”

“There’s nothing like exercise for getting up an appetite. I’ll be ready for Burton,” said Orville, “Awfully sorry I can’t stop and talk; but I’ll see you again in a minute or two.”

He opened the door as he spoke, and then, to the great delight of at least a score of people who had realized that the automobile was running away, the rubicund and stout Joe Burton, a pail of purée in one hand and some table cutlery and silverware and a napkin in the other, made a dash at the vehicle, and with help from Orville effected an entrance.

“Merry Christmas!” said Orville.

“Merry Christmas! Awfully sorry, old man, but it might be worse. Better drink it out of the pail. They gave me a knife and fork, but they neglected to put in a spoon or a dish. I thought that you were probably killed, but I never imagined this. Miss Badeau was terribly worked up. I think that she had decided on white carnations. Nice girl. You could easily jump, old man, if you hadn’t sprained your foot. Hurt much?”

“Like the devil; but I’m glad it worried Miss Badeau. No, I don’t mean that. But you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Burton, with a sociable smile. “Mrs. Marten told me. Nice girl. Let her in next time. Unusual thing, you know. People are very apt to jump _from_ a runaway vehicle, but it seldom takes up passengers. Let her get in, and you can explain matters to her. You see, she sails early in the morning, and you haven’t much time. You can tell her what a nice fellow you are, you know, and I’m sure you’ll have Mrs. Marten’s blessing. Here’s where I get out.”

With an agility admirable in one of his stoutness, Mr. Burton leaped to the street and ran up the steps to speak to Miss Badeau. Orville could see her blush, but there was no time for her to become a passenger that trip, and the young man once more made the circuit of the block, quite alone, but strangely happy. He had never ridden with Annette, except once on the elevated road, and then both Mr. and Mrs. Marten were of the company.

Round sped the motor, and when the Martens’ appeared in sight, Annette was on the sidewalk with a covered dish in her hand and a look of excited expectancy on her face that added a hundredfold to its charms.

“Here you are--only ten cents a ride. Merry Christmas!” shouted Orville gayly, and leaned half out of the automobile to catch her. It was a daring, almost an impossible jump, yet Annette made it without accident, and, flushed and excited, sat down in front of Mr. Thornton without spilling her burden, which proved to be sweetbreads.

“Miss Badeau--Annette, I hadn’t expected it to turn out this way, but of course your aunt doesn’t care, or she wouldn’t have let you come. We’re really in no danger. This driver has had more experience dodging teams in this last hour than he’d get in an ordinary year. They tell me you’re going to Europe early to-morrow to leave all your friends. Now, I’ve something very important to say to you before you go. No, thanks, I don’t want anything more. That purée was very filling. I’ve sprained my ankle, and I need to be very quiet for a week or two, perhaps until this machine runs down, but at the end of that time would you--”

Orville hesitated, and Annette blushed sweetly. She set the sweetbreads down upon the seat beside her. Orville had never looked so handsome before to her eyes.

He hesitated. “Go on,” said she.

“Would you be willing to go to Paris on a bridal trip?”

Annette’s answer was drowned in the hurrah of the driver as the automobile, gradually slackening, came to a full stop in front of the Martens’.

But Orville read her lips, and as he handed his untouched sweetbreads to Mrs. Burton, and his sweetheart to her uncle, his face wore a seraphically happy expression; and when Mr. Marten and the driver helped him up the steps at precisely eight o’clock, Annette’s hand sought his, and it was a jolly party that sat down to a big though somewhat dried-up Rhode Island turkey.

“Marriage also is an accident,” said Mr. Burton.

The University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A.

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Transcriber’s note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

An incorrect page reference in the List of Illustrations has been corrected.