prayed for a level stretch or a bit of a hill, for the wagon had run
away too, and where the wagon and the horse join in a mad flight there
must come a sudden ending to their career. The mountain-road offered
me no hope. Steeper and steeper it was as we dashed on. Tip became
very quiet. Once I glanced from the fleeing horse to him, and I saw
that his face was white and set.

"Get out, Tip," I cried. "Jump back, over the seat."

"Not me," said he, grimly. "We come to Happy Walley together, me and
you, and together we'll finish the trip."

He lent a hand on the reins, but it was useless, for the wagon and the
horse were running away together, and there was nothing to do but to
try to guide them.

"Pull closer to the bank at the bend ahead," Tip cried.

Almost before the warning passed his lips we had shot around the
projecting rock, where the road had been cut from the mountain-side.
We were near our journey's end then, for at the foot of the embankment
that sheered down at our left we heard the swish of a mountain-stream.
The horse went down. There was a cry from Tip--a sound of splintering
wood--something seemed to strike me a brutal blow. Then I lay back,
careless, fearless, and was rocked to sleep.

[Illustration: The horse went down.]