“You’re the Old Boy, all right, but not the one I meant was in that engine,” growled the chauffeur sullenly. “You are a crazy nuisance——” Tom had got out, reached the head of the car, and by leaning down the ditch side with care, he shut off the thumping engine. He now swung to look at the muttering chauffeur. The latter was ill-favored of feature and betrayed frankly that his mental condition had been brought about by indulgence in liquor. “You work for Peltin Brothers, at Norwalk,” Tom said sharply. “I’ve seen you before. This car from their garage?” “He comes from it, the Norwalk garage,” interposed the strange man who was now rescuing sundry bundles and bags from the interior of the car. “The car, it is mine. My other driver leaf me in one lurch, you say, no? This fellow—ah-ha! He is a low-life. It is not gasoline he buy for the car, but bad whisky for himself.” “Well, you are in a bad mess,” Tom said to the driver. “Come on and let’s see what we can do about getting her up on the road.” The man shook his head vigorously. He backed away, up the side of the ditch. When he reached the sound road he started right away from there, only looking back over his shoulder to bawl: “I wouldn’t help that crazy guy, or touch that car, for a farm down east with a pig on’t. You can have it, for all o’ me!” “Well!” exclaimed Mary, in disgust. “A fine dog that!” grumbled Tom ruefully. “A dumbskull!” ejaculated the strange gentleman, standing amid his baggage. “Why! How mean!” cried Mary. “Where were you going, sir?” Tom Swift asked. “To a place called Shopton. Do you know it?” “We live there,” said the young inventor briskly. “It is not far. If nobody else comes along, the young lady will drive you in my runabout. I will stay until help comes for the car. Or, maybe, we can get it out of the mud ourselves.” “Ach! Not me!” cried the stranger. “I must not soil or injure my hands. I do not lift weights. I am not here to strain my muscles and rack my nerves for such things as this. Ach, no!” Tom and Mary stared at each other. They did not know whether to be amused or disgusted with the stranger. He seemed willing enough to accept help, but he was not inclined to help himself! “Well,” Tom said finally, and dryly, “you don’t mind if I try to recover your car for you?” “Not at all,” declared the man, with a shrug. “You will do what you please. But I, I do not aid.” “But it is your car? You bought and paid for it?” “Yes, yes! What has that to do with it? I know my place. It is not working in the muddy ditch over a motor-car. No!” “I believe you,” muttered Tom to Mary. “His place is somewhere on a mantelpiece for an ornament.” “Hush, Tom,” the girl said. “Will you help him?” “For my own satisfaction, not because I am inclined to play the Samaritan to such a fellow. I’ll lend the helping hand.” CHAPTER V WHAT CAME OF IT