to raise my spirits. At any rate I managed to shake off a little of my
gloom and tramped on up the Lane, feeling more like a human being and
less like a yellow dog. Less as I should imagine a yellow dog ought
to feel, I mean, for, as a matter of fact, most yellow dogs of my
acquaintance seem to be as happy as their brown or white or black
relatives. I walked up the Lane, turned into the Lower Road, and headed
for the village. The day was a gorgeous one, the air bracing as a tonic,
and my thirtieth birthday was not yet so far astern as to be lost in
the fog. After all, there were some consolations in being alive and in a
state of health not "debilitated." I began to whistle.

A quarter of a mile from the junction of the Shore Lane, on the Lower
Road, was a willow-shaded spot, where the brook which irrigated Elnathan
Mullet's cranberry swamp ran under a small wooden bridge. It was there
that I first heard the horn and, turning, saw the automobile coming from
behind me. It was approaching at a speed of, I should say, thirty miles
an hour, and I jumped to the rail of the bridge to let it pass. Autos
were not as common on the Cape then as they have become since. Now the
average pedestrian of common-sense jumps first and looks afterwards.

However, I jumped in time, and stood still to watch the car as it went
by. But it did not go by--not then. Its speed slackened as it
approached and it came to a halt on the bridge beside me. A big car;
an aristocratic car; a machine of pomp and price and polish, such as
Denboro saw but seldom. It contained three persons--a capped and goggled
chauffeur on the front seat, and a young fellow and a girl in the
tonneau. They attracted my attention in just that order--first the
chauffeur, then the young fellow, and, last of all, the girl.

It was the chauffeur who hailed me. He leaned across the upholstery