“Doc,” he said, “how will I get home when I’m drunk, now you’ve tore up my trained Ford?”

Doc broke down and cried like a little baby.

“I ain’t got the money to replace it,” he said, “but I’ll give you my car. I’ll carry the Little Giant line of remedies on foot.”

Uncle Benny said, “I don’t want your car. It ain’t trained.”

Doc said, “Then I’ll tote you on my back, anywheres you say.”

The Old Hen let in the bird-dogs, some of them limping a little, and they climbed on the bed and beat their tails on the counterpane and licked Uncle Benny. We felt mighty relieved things had come out that way.

Uncle Benny was up and around in a few days, with his head bandaged, and him as pert as a woodpecker. He just about owned Oak Bluff—all except the people that did like I figured, never did get over the idea he’d gone really crazy. Most people figured he’d had a mighty good lesson and it would learn him not to cut the fool. The Old Hen was as happy as a bride. She was so proud to have the Ford torn up, and no money to get another, that she’d even now and again pet one of the bird-dogs. She waited on Uncle Benny hand and foot and couldn’t do enough to please him.

She said to me, “The pore ol’ feller sure stays home nights now.”

Stay home? Uncle Benny stay home? Two weeks after the accident the wreck of the Model-T disappeared from behind the garage where Will had dragged it. The next day the seven bird-dogs disappeared. The day after that Doc and Uncle Benny went to Ocala in Doc’s car. Will wouldn’t answer me when I asked him questions. The Old Hen stopped by the garage and got a Coca-Cola and she didn’t know any more than I did. Then Will pointed down the road.

He said, “Yonder he comes.”

And yonder he came. You could tell him way off by the white bandage with the tufts of hair sticking up over it. He was scrooched down behind the wheel of what looked like a brand-new automobile. Doc was following behind him. They swooped into the garage.

Will said, “It’s a new second-hand body put on the chassis and around the engine of the old Ford.”

Uncle Benny got out and he greeted us.

He said, “Will, it’s just possible it was the motor of the Model-T that had takened the training. The motor ain’t hurt, and me and Doc are real hopeful.”

The Old Hen said, “Benny, where’d you get the money to pay for it?”

He said, “Why, a daggone bootlegger in a truck going from Miami to New York bought the bird-dogs for twenty-five dollars apiece. The low-down rascal knowed good and well they was worth seventy-five.”

She brightened some. Getting shut of the bird-dogs was a little progress. She walked over to the car and begun looking around it.