Redwheels ran a few yards on two wheels, then tried the opposite two
before it settled back to the prosaic though comfortable use of four as
we took a flying leap across a little creek ditch.

"We can't die sentimentally; we've got to get back to those suffering
cows," I answered him, firmly, as I whirled into Spring Hill and stopped
Redwheels, panting and hot, in front of the dry-goods, feed, and drug
store. There I knew we could find out anything we wanted to know about
the whereabouts or profession of any of the fifteen hundred inhabitants
of the little old hamlet which has nestled under the hills for a hundred
years or more. "Ask where the cow physician lives. Quick!"

And at my urge Sam sprang out and across the old, uneven brick pavement
that lay between us and the store door. Then in less than two minutes he
appeared with a round, red-faced, white-headed old man who wheezed
chuckles as he talked.

His fear of the car was only equaled by his fascination at the idea of
the long ride in it, which would be the first motor-driven sortie he had
ever made out into life.

"Air ye sure, little missie, that you can drive the contraption so as
not to run away with us? Old folks is tetchy, like a basket of pullet
eggs," he said, as Sam seated him in the back seat and sprang to my
side.

"I wish I had a rope to tie him in," he muttered, as he sank into his
seat. "If you run as you did coming, we'll sure lose him. He'll bounce
like a butter-ball."