Shaming the Speed Limit

A GIRL, A DOG, AND A MAN.

When Miss Elizabeth Wiggin settled herself comfortably in the shade of the spreading oak in Libby’s pasture, she looked forward eagerly to a pleasant and quiet hour with her book, “Wooed, Won, and Wedded.” As may be surmised from the title of the book, Miss Wiggin was romantic. She was likewise just eighteen years of age, and the daughter of Judge Nathan P. Wiggin, of Greenbush, the village that could be seen nestling in the valley something like a mile distant from that hillside oak.

Miss Wiggin lived in Greenbush, but on pleasant afternoons she had a habit of wandering away, accompanied only by an aged shepherd dog, in search of some spot where she could read without fear of interruption. For her grim old father objected to trashy love stories, and her ascetic spinster aunt, who had acted as the judge’s housekeeper since the death of Mrs. Wiggin, held all such fiction in abhorrence.

Indeed, the animus of Aunt Sally Wiggin against stories depicting the ravages wrought by the little god of the bow and arrow was so extreme that, by consigning such terrible tales to the flames whenever she found them about the house, she conscientiously did her best to prevent them from turning the head of her niece. She even forbade the village news dealer to sell Bessie any more books of that type.

In these days, however, it is no easy matter to deprive any one of the mental pabulum that is desired, and Aunt Sally had set herself a task that she could not accomplish. Lemuel Dodd, Judge Wiggin’s hostler and man of all work, red-headed, freckled, and homely as a slump fence, undeterred by the discouraging fact that his persistent efforts to make love to Bessie seemed merely to arouse her amusement, became her secret and faithful ally. Twice a week, at least, he spent twenty-five cents of his wages for a paper-covered novel to be smuggled into her possession, and invariably he chose the ones whose titles seemed to promise that their contents would come up to Elizabeth’s requirements.

“There ain’t many single fellers left round this town,” Lemuel told himself, “and mebbe if she reads enough of them yarns she’ll git so desprit she’ll have to grab what’s handy. And when she gits the notion to grab, I’m going to take keer that I’m the handiest thing in reach.”

And so, on this sunny September afternoon, Bessie Wiggin was seeking the shade of the oak in Libby’s pasture, presumably afar from interruption, and prepared thoroughly to enjoy Lemuel’s latest contribution. Her face was almost hidden by one of Aunt Sally’s extremely old-fashioned sunbonnets, which she had hastily taken when she slipped out of the house with the book. Shep, the old dog, stretched himself in the short grass at her feet and prepared to go to sleep comfortably.

The view from this spot, at a considerable distance from the brown road that wound, ribbonlike, down into the village, was pleasant to the eye, but the judge’s daughter lost no time in admiring the scenery. She was soon absorbed in the pages of her novel.

So absorbed did she become that she failed to hear the approaching steps of a somewhat dusty and soiled, but decidedly good-looking, young man in a brown Norfolk suit, knee-length leather leggings, and a motoring cap. He was within a few yards of her when he saw her and stopped.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, looking down upon the obscuring sunbonnet.

She uttered a little startled scream, and looked up, her blue eyes wide, her red lips parted. A glimpse of the pretty and youthful face which the sunbonnet had concealed caused the stranger to catch his breath.

“Reginald!” exclaimed Miss Wiggin, beholding before her the living incarnation of the hero of her book just as her fancy had pictured him.

“Daphne!” said the young man, thinking of the mythological wood nymph.

“Woof!” barked the old dog, awaking and springing up as quickly as age and rheumatism would allow.

The stranger backed round to the opposite side of the tree. “Keep that beast away from me, please,” he begged, in evident apprehension.

With a swift sweep of one slender hand, Miss Wiggin thrust back the sunbonnet, which, held by the loosely knotted ribbons, hung suspended on her shoulders, exposing a mass of wavy, golden-brown hair. At the same moment, with remarkable agility and grace, she half rose and half turned. On her knees, her right hand clasping the book, the fingers of her left hand lightly touching the ground, her gaze followed the shrinking young man, who was now fearfully watching the ominously growling dog. Surely this was unexpected and disappointing behavior for Reginald, the brave, who—in her novel—had unhesitatingly faced the most frightful perils for his lady fair.

Made suspicious by the actions of the stranger, Shep advanced, bristling and snapping. As if contemplating instant flight, the young man gave one hasty look around. The nearest fence was some six or eight rods away, and it did not promise to stop a ferocious and angry dog in pursuit of a fleeing fugitive, and there was no other refuge in sight.

“Keep that creature away, won’t you?” again entreated the agitated man, placing the trunk of the tree between himself and the animal. “I detest dogs!”

“Oh, Reginald!” sighed Bessie Wiggin in bitter disappointment!

“Oh, hang it!” exploded the stranger, with shocking violence. “If I had a gun——”

Shep charged, barking violently. He meant to stop out of reach of the man’s feet in case he showed a disposition to kick. But, making a great leap, the stranger clutched a stout lower limb of the tree, and swung himself up out of the reach of harm with the most amazing celerity, the dog snapping at his heels as they receded skyward.

Perched astride the limb, with his feet drawn up, the refugee shook his fist at the raging animal, which, inflamed by success, made another great jump into the air and fell back on the ground, his age-enfeebled legs collapsing beneath him.

Still kneeling, the girl burst into a peal of laughter.