"No, but he will be glad to have me use the machine. He said everything at the Lodge was at my disposal." "Cars," said Bub, "ain't like other things. A feller'll lend his huntin'-dog, er his knife, er his overcoat; but he's all-fired shy o' lendin' his car. Ef I runned it for ye, Will might blame ME." Mr. Conant fixed his dull stare on the boy's face, but Bub went on whittling. However, in the boy's inmost heart was a keen desire to run that motor car, as had been proposed. So he casually remarked: "Ef ye forced me, ye know, I'd jus' hev to do it. Even Will couldn't blame me ef I were forced." Mr. Conant was so exasperated that the hint was enough. He seized the boy's collar, lifted him off the stump and kicked him repeatedly as he propelled his victim toward the house. "Oh, Uncle Peter!" cried Mary Louise, distressed; but Peter was obdurate and Bub never whimpered. He even managed to close his knife, between kicks, and slip it into his trousers pocket. When they came to the garage the lawyer halted, more winded than Bub, and demanded sharply: "What is needed to put the car in shape to run?" "Tires, gas'line, oil 'n' water." "The tires are in the cellar, you say? Get them out or I'll skin you alive." Bub nodded, grinning. "Forcin' of me, afore a witness, lets me out," he remarked, cheerfully, and straightway went for the tires. Irene wheeled herself out and joined Uncle Peter and Mary Louise in watching the boy attach the tires, which were on demountable rims and soon put in place. All were surprised at Bub's sudden exhibition of energy and his deft movements, for he worked with the assurance of a skilled mechanic. "Now, we need gasoline," said Mr. Conant. "I must order that from Millbank, I suppose." "Onless ye want to rob Will Morrison's tank," agreed Bub. "Oh; has he a tank of gasoline here?" Bub nodded.