Shaming the Speed Limit
CHAPTER I
A GIRL, A DOG, AND A MAN.
When Miss Elizabeth Wiggin settled herself comfortably in the shade of thespreading oak in Libby’s pasture, she looked forward eagerly to a pleasant andquiet hour with her book, “Wooed, Won, and Wedded.” As may be surmised from thetitle of the book, Miss Wiggin was romantic. She was likewise just eighteenyears of age, and the daughter of Judge Nathan P. Wiggin, of Greenbush, thevillage that could be seen nestling in the valley something like a mile distantfrom that hillside oak.
Miss Wiggin lived in Greenbush, but on pleasant afternoons she had a habit ofwandering away, accompanied only by an aged shepherd dog, in search of some spotwhere she could read without fear of interruption. For her grim old fatherobjected to trashy love stories, and her ascetic spinster aunt, who had acted asthe judge’s housekeeper since the death of Mrs. Wiggin, held all such fiction inabhorrence.
Indeed, the animus of Aunt Sally Wiggin against stories depicting the ravageswrought by the little god of the bow and arrow was so extreme that, byconsigning such terrible tales to the flames whenever she found them about thehouse, she conscientiously did her best to prevent them from turning the head ofher niece. She even forbade the village news dealer to sell Bessie any morebooks of that type.
In these days, however, it is no easy matter to deprive any one of the mentalpabulum that is desired, and Aunt Sally had set herself a task that she couldnot accomplish. Lemuel Dodd, Judge Wiggin’s hostler and man of all work,red-headed, freckled, and homely as a slump fence, undeterred by thediscouraging fact that his persistent efforts to make love to Bessie seemedmerely to arouse her amusement, became her secret and faithful ally. Twice aweek, at least, he spent twenty-five cents of his wages for a paper-coverednovel to be smuggled into her possession, and invariably he chose the ones whosetitles seemed to promise that their contents would come up to Elizabeth’srequirements.
“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 haveto grab what’s handy. And when she gits the notion to grab, I’m going to takekeer that I’m the handiest thing in reach.”
And so, on this sunny September afternoon, Bessie Wiggin was seeking theshade of the oak in Libby’s pasture, presumably afar from interruption, andprepared thoroughly to enjoy Lemuel’s latest contribution. Her face was almosthidden by one of Aunt Sally’s extremely old-fashioned sunbonnets, which she hadhastily taken when she slipped out of the house with the book. Shep, the olddog, stretched himself in the short grass at her feet and prepared to go tosleep comfortably.
The view from this spot, at a considerable distance from the brown road thatwound, ribbonlike, down into the village, was pleasant to the eye, but thejudge’s daughter lost no time in admiring the scenery. She was soon absorbed inthe pages of her novel.
So absorbed did she become that she failed to hear the approaching steps of asomewhat dusty and soiled, but decidedly good-looking, young man in a brownNorfolk suit, knee-length leather leggings, and a motoring cap. He was within afew yards of her when he saw her and stopped.
“I beg your pard