Gordon was up at seven the next morning, having had, as he reckoned, a good nine hours and more of sleep. At breakfast he told again the story of the accident, this time to an interested audience of three. The third was Fudge, who, since almost an hour before, had been hanging around waiting for Gordon’s appearance, and who now was seated at table with a cup of coffee and one of Mrs. Merrick’s graham muffins in front of him. Fudge acknowledged that he had rather skimped his breakfast. Mr. Merrick mildly censured Gordon for accepting Morris Brent’s invitation to ride, but it was evident that he was too proud of Gordon’s part in the affair to be severe. Fudge was anxious to know what had become of the runabout and Gordon replied that so far as he knew it was just where they had left it. “I guess,” he said, “it’s pretty badly smashed up. I know one wheel has about all the spokes out of it, and I think the axle is busted. Still, I dare say it can be mended.” “B-b-bet you Morris will never run it again, though,” said Fudge. “Guess it’s a good chance for someone to buy an auto cheap. Wish I could!” “Why, William!” murmured Mrs. Merrick. “The idea!” “Oh, a fellow doesn’t have to run it the way Morris did,” replied Fudge knowingly. “Tim Turner’s father has had a car for two years and he’s never had an accident yet.” “Why don’t you see Mr. Brent?” suggested Gordon. “I dare say he will let you have it for almost nothing.” Fudge thrust a hand in a pocket and gravely counted the change he drew out. “If he’ll let me have it for sixty-three cents I’ll take it,” he said. Mr. Merrick pushed back his chair. “If I ever hear of either of you riding in an automobile without permission I’ll see that you get what you deserve,” he said grimly. Fudge grinned. “You’d have to catch me first,” he said. Gordon announced his intention of running over to see Dick and his father reminded him that Mr. Brent was going to call. Gordon replied evasively that he guessed Mr. Brent had changed his mind. He secretly hoped that he had. But when, after Mr. Merrick’s departure for his office, Gordon wheeled his bicycle down the steps he saw Mr. Brent coming along the street, his ivory-topped walking-stick thumping the pavement briskly. Escape was impossible and so Gordon leaned his wheel against the gate post and waited. Fudge melted into the background. Mr. Brent was about the only person Fudge was in awe of. “Well, my boy,” greeted Mr. Brent, “you got off lucky.” “Yes, sir. I’m awfully sorry about Morris. How is he?” “Better than he deserves,” replied Mr. Brent with a snap of his jaws. “The doctor tells me it will be six weeks or more before he will be on his feet again. I suppose he was running the thing like mad, wasn’t he?” “No, sir, he was going quite slowly. I don’t know just how it happened, Mr. Brent. I think there must have been a bad place in the road.”