James minded. He paddled ashore and hopped, dripping like a dishcloth,
alongside the truck wagon.

"Get in!" orders Skipper Clarissa. He done it. "Now," says the lady,
passing the reins over to me, "drive us home, Mr. Wingate, before that
intoxicated lunatic can catch us."

It seemed about the only thing to do. I knew 'twas no use explaining
to Lonesome for an hour or more yet, even if you can talk finger signs,
which part of my college training has been neglected. 'Twas murder he
wanted at the present time. I had some sort of a foggy notion that I'd
drive along, pick up the guns and then get the Todds over to the
hotel, afterward coming back to get the launch and pay damages to
Huckleberries. I cal'lated he'd be more reasonable by that time.

But the mare had made other arrangements. When I slapped her with the
end of the reins she took the bit in her teeth and commenced to gallop.
I hollered "Whoa!" and "Heave to!" and "Belay!" and everything else I
could think of, but she never took in a reef. We bumped over hummocks
and ridges, and every time we done it we spilled something out of
that wagon. First 'twas a lot of huckleberry pails, then a basket of
groceries and such, then a tin pan with some potatoes in it, then a jug
done up in a blanket. We was heaving cargo overboard like a leaky ship
in a typhoon. Out of the tail of my eye I see Lonesome, well out to sea,
heading the Greased Lightning for the beach.

Clarissa put in the time soothing James, who had a serious case of the
scart-to-deaths, and calling me an "utter barbarian" for driving so
fast. Lucky for all hands, she had to hold on tight to keep from being
jounced out, 'long with the rest of movables, so she couldn't take