In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
the lost tire.
One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
his pride.
Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.
Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner
and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
higher denominations.
But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
"Strange--strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?"
Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful
Thomas.
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