eight o'clock to-night."

"And that's a local that stops at every white-washed fence," added Nat.

"Oh, well, then she'll have plenty of time to think of the fine dinner she
has missed," went on his brother. "Of all mean traits, I count that of
being late the very meanest a nice girl can have."

"Oh, so then she is nice?" inquired Dorothy with a smile.

"Well, she can be--sometimes. But she was not to-day--eh, Nat?"

"For the land sake, say your prayers, or do--do something!" exclaimed his
irritated brother.

"I might," retorted Ned, "but, being good is such a lonesome job, as some
poet has remarked. Now, having fun is--"

"Look out there!" cautioned Nat suddenly. "You nearly ran over Mrs.
Brocade's pet pup."

A tiny dog, of the much-admired, white-silk variety, was barking
vigorously at the Fire Bird on account of the danger to which it had been
subjected by the fat tires. And the dog's mistress, Mrs. Broadbent,
nicknamed "Brocade" on account of her weakness for old-time silks and
satins, was saying things about the auto party in much the same sort of
aggrieved tones that the favorite dog was using.

"Wait until she meets you at the post-office," Nat reminded Ned. "Maybe
she won't rustle her silks and satins at you."