"You damned fool!" thundered Carl in a flash of temper. "Where are
your lights?"
The man did not reply.
Carl, whose normal instincts were friendly, sprang solicitously from
the car.
"I beg your pardon," said he carelessly. "Are you hurt?"
"No," said the other curtly.
"French," decided Carl, marking the European intonation. "Badly shaken
up, poor devil!--and not sure of his English. That accounts for his
peculiar silence. Monsieur," said he civilly in French. "I am not
prepared to deliver a homily upon wild driving, but it's well to drive
with lights when roads are dark and storm abroad."
"I have driven so few times," said the other coldly in excellent
English, "and the storm and erratic manner of your approach were
disquieting."
"_Touche_!" admitted Carl indifferently. "You have me there. Your
choice of a practice night, however," he added dryly, "was unique, to
say the least."
He crossed the road, frowned curiously down at the wrecked machine and
struck a match.
"_Voila_!" he exclaimed, staring aghast at the bent and splintered
mass, "_c'est magnifique, Monsieur_!'"
A sheet of flame shot suddenly from the match downward and wrapped the
wreck in fire. Conscious now of the fumes of leaking gasoline, Carl
leaped back.
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