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“Betty, you practically stuck out your tongue at Mr. Oakley!” This after a dance at which Elizabeth had been paired off, as usual, with the puffy and red-eyed old widower of that name.

“I don’t care. His hands are fat and he creaks when he breathes.”

“Next to Hatton, he’s the richest man in Chippewa. And he likes you.”

“He’d better not!” She spat it out, and the gray eyes blazed behind the glasses. “I’d rather be plastered up against the wall all my life than dance with him. Fat!”

“Well, my dear, you’re no beauty, you know,” with cruel frankness.

“I’m not much to look at,” replied Elizabeth, “but I’m beautiful inside.”

“Rot!” retorted the Widow Weld, inelegantly.

Had you lived in Chippewa all this explanation would have been unnecessary. In that terrifying way small towns have, it was known that of all codfish aristocracy the Widow Weld was the piscatorial pinnacle.

When Chug Scaritt first met the Weld girl she was standing out in the middle of the country road at ten-thirty P.M., her arms outstretched and the blood running down one cheek. He had been purring along the road toward home, drowsy and lulled by the motion and the April air. His thoughts had been drowsy, too, and disconnected.

“If I can rent Bergstrom’s place next door when their lease is up I’ll knock down the partition and put in auto supplies. There’s big money in ’em…. Guess if it keeps on warm like this we can plant the garden next week…. That was swell cake Ma had for supper…. What’s that in the road! What’s!–“

Jammed down the foot-brake. Jerked back the emergency. A girl standing in the road. A dark mass in the ditch by the road-side. He was out of his car. He recognized her as the Weld girl.

“‘S’matter?”

“In the ditch. She’s hurt. Quick!”

“Whose car?” Chug was scrambling down the banks.

“Hatton’s. Angie Hatton’s.”

“Gosh!”

Over by the fence, where she had been flung, Angie Hatton was found sitting up, dizzily, and saying, “Betty! Betty!” in what she supposed was a loud cry but which was really a whisper.

“I’m all right, dear. I’m all right. Oh, Angie, are you–“

She was cut and bruised, and her wrist had been broken. The two girls clung to each other, wordlessly. The thing was miraculous, in view of the car that lay perilously tipped on its fender.

“You’re a lucky bunch,” said Chug. “Who was driving?”

“I was,” said Angie Hatton.

“It wasn’t her fault,” the Weld girl put in, quickly. “We were coming from Winnebago. She’s a wonderful driver. We met a farm-wagon coming toward us. One of those big ones. The middle of the road. Perhaps he was asleep. He didn’t turn out. We thought he would, of course. At the last minute we had to try for the ditch. It was too steep.”

“Anyway, you’re nervy kids, both of you. I’ll have you both home in twenty minutes. We’ll have to leave five thousand dollars’ worth of car in the road till morning. It’ll be all right.”

He did get them home in twenty minutes and the five thousand dollars’ worth of car was still lying repentantly in the ditch when morning came. Old Man Hatton himself came into the garage to thank Chug the following day. Chug met him in overalls, smudge-faced as he was. Old Man Hatton put out his hand. Chug grinned and looked at his own grease-grimed paw.

“That’s all right,” said Old Man Hatton, and grasped it firmly. “Want to thank you.”

“That’s all right,” said Chug. “Didn’t do a thing.”

“No business driving alone that hour of the night. Girls nowadays–” He looked around the garage. “Work here, I suppose?”

“Yessir.”

“If there’s anything I can do for you? Over at the mill.”

“Guess not,” said Chug.

“Treat you right here, do they?”

“Fine.”

“Let’s see. Who owns this place?”

“I do.”

Old Man Hatton’s face broke into a sunburst of laugh-wrinkles. He threw back his head and went the scale from roar to chuckle. “One on me. Pretty good. Have to tell Angie that one.”