"Well, we're out of that stretch of woods, anyhow," he declared. "And it
'tain't rainin' so hard, nuther. Cal'late we can get to civilization if
that breechin' holds and the pesky wheel don't come off. How are you, in
aft there; tolerable snug?"

Emily said nothing. Aunt Thankful chuckled at the word.

"Snug!" she repeated. "My, yes! If this water was salt we'd be as snug
as a couple of pickled mackerel. How far off is this civilization you're
talkin' about?"

"Well, our hotel where you're bound is a good two mile, but
there's--Judas priest! there goes that breechin' again!"

There was another halt while the breeching underwent temporary repairs.
The wind blew as hard as ever, but the rain had almost stopped. A few
minutes later it stopped altogether.

"There!" declared Winnie S. "The fust mile's gone. I don't know's I
hadn't ought to stop--"

Aunt Thankful interrupted. "Stop!" she cried. "For mercy sakes, don't
stop anywheres unless you have to. We've done nothin' but stop ever
since we started. Go on as far as you can while this--this machine of
yours is wound up."

But that was not destined to be far. From beneath the forward end of
the depot-wagon sounded a most alarming creak, a long-drawn, threatening
groan. Winnie S. uttered his favorite exclamation.