- ing post—perhaps Freeburg's last reminder of the
Horse Age—and plunged obliquely into the front of "Poppy's" emporium! When, dazedly, Clif looked, the farther sidewalk was strewed with papers and oranges and shattered glass, and splintered boxes and "Poppy" himself, white-faced but voluble, was shaking a huge fist in the face of the scared driver.
Two minutes before it would have been difficult to count a dozen persons on the whole length of Oak Street. Now thrice that many were gathered about the scene of the accident and every instant saw the number increase. Clif's gaze dropped to Loring Deane. The latter was looking up at him questioningly. His face was pale, but he was smiling bravely enough.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Plenty," answered Clif grimly. He swung the chair around so that its occupant could see for himself. The driver of the badly damaged car had alighted, but in the rear seat two frightened women were staring strainedly about them. The town constable, stiffly attired for church, had arrived, and his thin, indignantly high-pitched voice was to be heard above the excited chatter of the throng. "You was goin' too fast! I seen you! You was goin' too fast!"
"I'm very sorry," said Loring. "It was my fault."
"No, it wasn't," Clif protested. "That man came around the corner at twenty miles an hour, easy. He was hitting thirty until he started to turn! It's a wonder he didn't get you, Deane. He's smashed the handles clean off." Clif retrieved the broken part
