This was the narrow street of some quaint European village, Scotch he soon saw from the dress of its people.

A large automobile was invading this remote hamlet to the dismay of its inhabitants.

Rehearsed through a megaphone they scurried within doors at its approach, ancient men hobbling on sticks and frantic mothers grabbing their little ones from the path of the monster.

Two trial trips he saw the car make the length of the little street.
At its lower end, brooding placidly, was an ancient horse rather recalling Dexter in his generously exposed bones and the jaded droop of his head above a low stone wall.

Twice the car sped by him, arousing no sign of apprehension nor even of interest.