“Then I’ll take to the woods. Lives of the hunted and all that sort of thing. Before I’m through with all this I may have to disguise myself as a rabbit and learn to twitch my ears.”
“It is,” he confirmed, “with the woods full of amateur hunters. But I’ve known rabbits to live to a ripe old age. There was an old cottontail on Uncle Simeon’s place—”
“Please don’t joke. It’s fearfully serious for me. I’ve got to go ahead and face the girls.”
“Say the word and I’ll gird my gospel armour on—I mean my side-burns—and support you.”
“Yes: and what would our frisky chauffeur think of that! Gracious goodness! I forgot about him. What will he think about your disappearance if you run away now?”
“Leave him to me. I’ve got an argument for him.”
The native reappeared with the information that the truck was bemired and that the garage car in which one couple had arrived from Ashland (the motor-boat having broken down) was unable to pull it out unaided. Therefore, he told them, he would have to go to the rescue with his car.
Mr. Remsen produced a roll of greenbacks. “Have you any aversion to a ten-dollar bill?” he inquired.
“I ain’t never knowed one teh make me sick t’ my stommick yet,” confessed the native.
But the speeder withheld his hand. “What am I bein’ hired fer?”
“To tell me a short cut by foot to the Bungalow.”
“Over this hill, and yeh can see it. Only house in sight. Whut else?”
“Nuthin’ fishy about this?” inquired the cautious chauffeur.
“It’s just a little joke on the people in front.”
“My mem’ry,” said the other, pocketing the bill, “ain’t whut it was. I c’n t ba’ly rec’lect t’ say ‘Thank-ye,’ but there my power gives out. Some one comin’ aroun! the bend,” he added.
Remsen made a dive into the underbrush. From somewhere above Darcy, a moment later, a tree found voice to speak like a dryad:
At the elbow of the road appeared Maud and Holcomb Lee. Darcy, envying Daniel what has been regarded as one of the most trying experiences in the records of animal training, walked forward to meet them.
ROUSED into semi-wakefulness by the first shaft of sunlight that pierced the Bungalow windows, Mr. Jacob Remsen indulged in sleepy self-communion.
“Who are we this morning? Not our bright and lovely self. That’s a cinch... Rodney Carteret? No: we shook Rodney in New York... Veyze! That’s it; Montrose Veyze. _Sir_ Montrose, if you please.... Oh, Lord! The bride.” Unaccustomed though he was to allow the sun’s early rays to pry him forth from his slumbers, the man of aliases leapt out of bed, chuckled himself through his toilet and breakfast, and still emitting sub-sounds, not so much of glee as of a profound and abiding satisfaction in life, took the road for Center Harbor. Darcy, still wrapped in dreams at the Farmhouse, would have made the distance in better time; nevertheless, his hour-and-a-half was a fairly creditable performance. In consequence of certain telephonic efforts of the previous evening, he expected to find an express package at his destination, wherein he was not disappointed.