as he made-up! They'd have got him hung in any court in the world.

He run up the Cut-Through a little ways, and then come about, and back
he comes again, never slacking speed a mite, and running close to the
shoal as he could shave, and all the time going through the bloodiest
kind of pantomimes. And past he goes, to wheel 'round and commence all
over again.

Thinks I, "Why don't he ease up and lay us aboard? He's got all the
weapons there is. Is he scart?"

And then it come to me--the reason why. HE DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO STOP HER.
He could steer first rate, being used to sailboats, but an electric auto
launch was a new ideal for him, and he didn't understand her works. And
he dastn't run her aground at the speed she was making; 'twould have
finished her and, more'n likely, him, too.

I don't s'pose there ever was another mess just like it afore or sence.
Here was us, stranded with a horse we couldn't make go, being chased by
a feller who was run away with in a boat he couldn't stop!

Just as I'd about give up hope, I heard somebody calling from the beach
behind us. I turned, and there was Becky Huckleberries, Lonesome's
daughter. She had the dead decoys by the legs in one hand.

"Hi!" says she.

"Hi!" says I. "How do you get this giraffe of yours under way?"

She held up the decoys.