I was not his man, and wouldn't have been for something. The chauffeur had irritated me, but he irritated me more. I didn't like him, his looks, his clothes, and, particularly, his manner. Therefore, because I didn't feel like answering, I showed my independence by remaining silent. “What's the matter?” he demanded, impatiently. “Are you deaf? I say we want to go to Bayport.” A newspaper joke which I had recently read came to my mind. “Very well,” I said, “you have my permission.” It was a rude thing to say, and not even original. I don't attempt to excuse it. In fact, I was sorry as soon as I had said it. It had its effect. The young man turned red. Then he laughed aloud. “Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “What have we here? A humorist, I do believe! Mabel, we've discovered a genuine, rural humorist. Another David Harum, by Jove! Look at him!” The girl in the tonneau swept aside her veil and looked, as directed. And I looked at her. The face that I saw was sweet and refined and delicate, a beautiful young face, the face of a lady, born and bred. All this I saw and realized at a glance; but what I was most conscious of at the time was the look in the dark eyes as they surveyed me from head to foot. Indifference was there, and contemptuous amusement; she didn't even condescend to smile, much less speak. Under that look my self-importance shrank until the yellow dog with which I had compared myself loomed as large as an elephant. She might have looked that way at some curious and rather ridiculous bug, just before calling a servant to step on it. The young man laughed again. “Isn't it a wonder, Mabel?” he asked. “The native wit on his native heath! Reuben--pardon me, your name is Reuben, isn't it?--now that you've had your little joke, would you condescend to tell us the road which we should take to reach Bayport in the shortest time? Would you oblige us to that extent?” The young lady smiled at this. “Victor,” she said, “how idiotic you are!” I agreed with her. Idiot was one of the terms, the mildest, which I should have applied to that young man. I wanted very much to remove him from that car by what Lute would call the scruff of the neck. But most of all, just then, I wanted to be alone, to see the last of the auto and its occupants. “First turn to the right, second to the left,” I said, sullenly. “Thank you, Reuben,” vouchsafed the young man. “Here's hoping that your vegetables are fresher than your jokes. Go ahead, Oscar.” The chauffeur threw in the clutch and the car buzzed up the road, turning the corner at full speed. There was a loose board projecting from the bridge just under my feet. As a member--though an inactive one--of the Village Improvement Society I should have trodden it back into place. I didn't; I kicked it into the brook. Then I walked on. But the remainder of my march was a silent one, without music. I did not whistle. CHAPTER II