All the females of our party uttered uncensored cries, demanding retreat at any price; but Ed Caspian, hearing these wails, turned upon us with taunts. Close behind him came the Grayles-Grice, Peter Storm at the wheel. "Let the ladies come into my car, Mr. Storm," said he, "and they won't notice the jolts." "Certainly, if they like," Peter consented. "We _don't_ like, thanks!" replied all the Goodrich giantesses as one. Pat didn't answer, but had the air of a captain intending to sink with the ship. "Oh, very well, _I_ shall see this through," remarked our noble leader. "One can go anywhere with a Wilmot, even to--the devil!" That wasn't the way he meant to end his sentence, _bien entendu_. But just then he plumped into a rut like the back door to China or--to the home of that over-painted gentleman inadvertently mentioned. We've all learned in Latin how easy is the descent to the _second_ abode, but if we hadn't had it sufficiently impressed on our young minds how difficult it is to get out again, we should have had an object lesson watching the Wilmot. Will-_not_ would have been a better name, if you don't mind a pun, for it simply wouldn't and--_didn't_. There it was, stuck in ruts of sand worse than Jack and I ever said bad words about in the Sahara. Ed Caspian and his chauffeur did what the German Kaiser used to say he'd do to win a Cowes yacht race--his damnedest. The engine groaned and snorted. You could almost see sweat starting from every valve. Nothing doing but noise! Naturally we were all delighted, because pride and falls go so well together when they're other people's; while as for the poor Hippopotamus, it looked _weeks_ younger, in a minute! Finally, in the midst of a roar that would have turned an elephant green with envy, the Wilmot's teeth were torn from their sockets--I mean the gears were stripped. That was the end; and all our men, looking hypercritically helpful, ran to the rescue. But there wasn't any rescue. When everything good had been tried and everything bad said, we had to leave. The Wilmot was left to the mercy of the mosquitoes. Ed Caspian was taken aboard the good ship Grayles-Grice, and Jack and I adopted the chauffeur. Our cars backed out of the worst ruts, and it was a long time before we could turn. There, on the way to Montauk Point, the Wilmot remains to this hour, for it was too late to do anything when we got home to the hotel. I wouldn't "put it past" those mosquitoes to suck off all the paint in the night! Just here in my budget I was interrupted. Pat tiptoed into the sitting-room, spying my rose-light on the balcony, and whispering my name like a password. I told you, didn't I, that there was pretty sure to be news at half-past midnight? There _is_--such funny news, entirely different from what I expected!