And then Gran'pa drew his machine up at the side of the pavement. There was a sharp explosion, a puff of smoke issued from the rear of the platform, and strange quivers shook the framework. The next moment Gran'pa toppled over into the gutter, where he began struggling with levers, handlebars and revolving wheels. The motor scooter seemed to be trying either to escape from or run over its passenger; but thanks to Gran'pa's extraordinary presence of mind, he managed to touch the right button, and the thing at last became silent and lifeless. I helped him to his feet. "Thank you, George!" he said, with an air of breezy politeness. "Don't mention it," I replied beneath my breath. "Anything I can do to hasten the termination of this insane exhibition of childish enthusiasm . . ." I lost myself in the attempt to express my precise emotions. "A mere side-slip," he murmured, using his hand as a species of carpet-beater. "I had a little trouble in starting, but didn't expect this." He again struck dust from his coat and trousers. Molly's self-control gave way and she broke into an unmusical "run" of explosive giggles. I looked at Gran'pa, smacking himself; at Molly, trying to stuff a handkerchief into her mouth; at the ugly, motionless machine in the gutter; at the sprawling patch of grease on the pavement; and, lastly, at the inevitable "gathering of clans"--that convergence of fellow creatures on any scene which is rich in "possibilities." "Molly! Take that wretched contrivance 'round to the back," I commanded, at the same time seizing Gran'pa by the arm. But, with a sudden twist, the old man freed himself, and behaved like a schoolboy with a new bicycle. "_No!_" he said, firmly. "I'll look after that, thank you!" "I don't care who looks after it," I snapped, "so long as we get the beastly thing away before the crowd arrives." "All right, George! You needn't lose your temper!" He caught hold of the handlebars and I picked up his hat from the pavement. Much to the spectators' amusement (and sorrow), we hastily withdrew to the security of the back garden, where Gran'pa again began to make himself objectionable. "I'm afraid it may have been damaged," he said, peering round and about it. "I'll just try it down the path here." "If you run into my celery bed I'll murder you!" I growled in the _sotto voce_ I so often adopted with the old man. But this time he had actually heard! "Don't be irritable, George! And don't mumble under your breath. Speak up!"