H. Bedford-Jones

“ If any hunter had mistaken that maroon top for a deer, he was not advertising his mistake to me.
"Shove fer home, Balliol!" cried out a rough voice. "Shove quick, or he'll give ye a closer one!"
The voice came from somewhere behind and to the left of the car. Balliol! I was being mistaken for Balliol—and there was no mistake being made!
As this astounding fact percolated to my brain, I wasted no time asking questions, but climbed into the car, started her up, and rolled away from there in a hurry. Balliol! Who in the name of goodness was trying to assassinate John Balliol? ”

“ It was the fault of the car, of course: people thought that Balliol was driving it. As I rattled across a bridge and entered upon excellent dirt roads, the realization cheered me immensely. Balliol had admitted that he had gotten into trouble up here of a private nature. Well, the minute his enemies discovered that I was not John Balliol, but Yorke Desmond. I would be left alone! Yet why, in such case, had the girl warned me? I gave it up.
With a suddenness for which I was unprepared, Lakeport jumped into my immediate foreground. ”

“ Most of the folks in Lakeport are out, from the Chink laundryman to the sheriff."
They drove on down the trail, but as they went I could see that they were looking back and making observations—probably on my car. Until they passed out of sight at the next curve they were still staring backward and discussing something: either me or the car. I took for granted that it was the car, and it was.
The deer season did not interest me particularly, because I have no taste for hunting. Cursing the foot-thick dust in the road, I got into the car and went on. ”