"Goff-off-errow!" the man still bellowed through the trumpet.

"I've got goods that will break and I'll be cuss-fired if I'll break
'em for you nor the whole Smyrna Fire Department!" screamed Brackett;
but when he tried to pull up his steed, the Cap'n, now wholly beside
himself and intent only on unrestricted speed, banged a leather
bucket down across the driver's hands.

Brackett dropped the reins, with a yell of pain, and they fell into
the dust and dragged. The horse broke into a bunchy, jerky gallop,
and lunged down the hill, the big van swaying wildly with an ominous
rattling and crashing in its mysterious interior.

There were teams coming along a cross-road ahead of them and teams
rattling from the opposite direction toward the fire, approaching
along the highway they were travelling. Collisions seemed inevitable.
But in a moment of inspiration the Cap'n grabbed the trumpet that
hung from its red cord around his neck and began to bellow in his
turn:

"Goff-off-errow, goff-off-errow!" It was as nearly as human voice
could phrase "Get off the road" through the thing.

The terrifying bulk of the big van cleared the way ahead, even though
people desperately risked tip-ups in the gutter. As it tore along,
horses climbed fences with heads and tails up. There were men
floundering in bushes and women squalling from the tops of
rock-heaps.

The Chief of the Ancients did not halt to attend to his duties at