"Get in, old boy," I begged. "We'll be there in a jiffy. Dead
bird--good doggie."
I got him in, with his head down and his tail between his legs. To all
intents he was going to a funeral. I turned quickly away, for I could
not stand the scorn and dumb reproach of his eyes. Right then I would
have quit and gone back, but I didn't want to hurt my friend's feelings.
"Jump in, jump in, let's be going," he shouted, in his nervous, business
way. "Oh, just a minute! There--you're on the ground. Say, here, take
this and give that starting crank a turn. I'm not very expert myself,"
he went on, "and I sometimes forget; but you're on the
ground--there--right there!"
I gave her a whirl, several of them. I whirled her like blue blazes. I
kept on whirling, while her owner grasped the wheel and his eyes danced
nervously, as he expected her to flash into the throb that said steam
was on.
But she didn't fire, and I kept cranking.
"Faster, Jack, harder!" he cried.
I whirled and whirled. I began to get warm. The sweat began to pour
off.
"Say," I said, gasping for breath, "this beats turning a grindstone.
What the devil--"
"Why, I canth--thee," he lisped, "turnth again--quick--a tharp, sthnappy
onth!"
I turned her again, quick, sharp and snappy. The thing pulled heavy and
felt like an unoiled grindstone, just out of the store. My arms ached,
the sweat poured off, and my back was nearly broken.
I gave her a final desperate twist, and--there she was! Dead as a log
wagon.
"Confound it," I said, mopping my forehead and staggering up; "I could
have curried the mare and hitched her up six times. Why, something's
wrong with your old gas wagon," I went on, getting hot. "I'll not turn
this crank any more," I said; "I'll be so sore in my arms I couldn't
hold my gun straight to-day."
He looked puzzled, annoyed.
"Why, I can't thee--" he began to lisp again.
"What's that you've got in your mouth?" I jerked out. "You don't lisp
that way naturally."
A smile broke over his face. He took out a little, black peg, and
roared. It was too funny--to him.
"Beg yo' pardon, old boy--beg yo' pardon--ha-ha-ha! Good joke. That's
the switch plug. You take it out when the machine's idle, and I forgot
to put it back in the little hole. Here," he said, sticking it in, "it
connects the current--ha-ha--good joke--now give her a whirl." I gave
the whirl, but in no manner to enjoy the joke. I heard her fire up and
begin to throb. We moved off beautifully. We began to fly up the
smooth pike, my hand back in Dick's collar, for fear he'd jump out and
commit suicide. I dared not turn round to look the honest dog in the
eyes.
"Fine, fine--ain't this fine, old man?" cried my friend
enthusiastically, as he buzzed up the road. "Look at your
watch--nine-twenty. Ah, now we'll be in the field at ten
sharp--sharp--two good hours for hunting before we eat our pocket lunch.
"Now your little old mare," he laughed, "would take up those fifteen
miles by now? Say, ha! ha!--acknowledge the corn, old man--the decree
has gone forth--it's all over with the old pacers."
I growled and said nothing. So did Dick. It was good, though, the way
we were eating up space and getting nearer to the birds, those game,
nervy, whirring birds that dart like winged flashes of thunder before
your gun. We whirled over the bridge at the river at lightning speed.
I saw the sign up about the fine for going faster than a walk, but how--
"How can an automobile walk--ha! ha!" he shouted, for he had read it
also and divined my thoughts and winked knowingly at me. "That applies
to horses and jackasses and such," he laughed--"things that walk. But
this don't walk, eh?"
Honk! Honk!
He was blowing for a stray mule to get out of his way.
The mule got, tail up, and settled into a barbed wire fence, which he
tried to jump, but only succeeded in cutting up his countenance.
Honk! Honk! "Get out of the way, if that's all the sense, you've got.
My! but ain't we buzzing?"