Obadiah endeavored to fix the shifting glance of his chauffeur with a piercing eye. "Ike," he demanded, roughly, "how did that accident occur?" "Yas'r, dat man come er speedin' down Secon' Street an' ran smack bang into dis yere caah. He dent it wid his haid," the chauffeur testified glibly. "Show me the dent!" Ike promptly indicated a slight depression in the body of the car above a rear fender. "You did that when you ran into a coal truck and smashed the fender." Ike was greatly astonished but admitted erroneous conclusions. "Ah mek er mistake. Dat man mus' er landed on de wheel den." "Don't make any more mistakes about this accident," the manufacturer rapped. "Virginia tells me that you were coming out Forest Avenue and that this fellow was going down Second Street." Ike considered this with care, that deception be eliminated. "Yas'r, Miss Virginny ain' mek no mistake, neither." Obadiah glared at his humble retainer. "He was on your right hand then?" he suggested. "Ah dis'remembers jes whar dat man cum f'om, Misto Dale. He cum so fas' it plum slip ma mind." Ike scratched his head thoughtfully. "It done gone f'om me." "He was going down Second Street towards the Court House and you were coming out home, weren't you?" "Yas'r, dat's jes de way o' it." "Then, he approached you on your right hand. He had the right of way." "Misto Dale, dat man done took all de way." "You know he had the right of way under the law," bawled Obadiah, provoked by the stupidity of his servitor. "Yas'r, dat's de law." A most flattering note of admiration for his employer's legal acumen crept into Ike's voice. "Misto Dale, yo'all sutinly knows de law." "Never mind what I know," roared Obadiah, thrusting compliments rudely aside. "If that fellow hit my car you must have been in his way." "No, sar, Ah was er gwine to hit 'im, 'ceptin' he dodge. He done cum so quick ah ain' seen 'im 'till he whar der. Yas'r." Puzzled at what he had unearthed, Obadiah sought illumination along other lines. "How fast was that fellow running, Ike, when he hit you?" The chauffeur lifted his eyes heavenward as if seeking inspiration. A crow winged its way slowly across the sky. He followed it critically as if using its speed as a measure for the estimate sought. "'Bout seventy seven mile er hour," he ventured. Obadiah boiled. "Seventy seven miles an hour on Second Street is absurd," he blurted. "It's too rough. A man would have to fly to do it." "Yas'r dat's hit. He was er flyin'. Jest er hittin' de high places." Obadiah scorched his menial with a look which should have reduced him to a cinder. Ike shifted uneasily under the unkind gaze of his indignant employer as he waited further interrogation. "How fast were you running?" Obadiah's tone was as warm as his aspect. Ike deemed it advisable at this point to make his statements general. "Ah drives cafful. Safety furst, dat's ma motta."