potater. And I give you my word that that mare started up, turned the
wagon around nice as could be, and begun to swim ashore. When we got
where the critter's legs touched bottom, Becky remarks: "Whoa!"

"Here!" I yells, "what did you do that for?"

"Pay thirty-five dolla NOW," says she. She was bus'ness, that girl.

Todd got his wallet from under hatches and counted out the thirty-five,
keeping one eye on Lonesome, who was swooping up and down in the launch
looking as if he wanted to cut in, but dasn't. I tied the bills to
my jack-knife, to give 'em weight, and tossed the whole thing ashore.
Becky, she counted the cash and stowed it away in her apron pocket.

"ALL right," says she. "Hi, Rosa!" The potater and pan performance begun
again, and Rosa picked up her hoofs and dragged us to dry land. And it
sartinly felt good to the feet.

"Say," I says, "Becky, it's none of my affairs, as I know of, but is
that the way you usually start that horse of yours?"

She said it was. And Rosa ate the potater.

Becky asked me how to stop the launch, and I told her. She made a lot
of finger signs to Lonesome, and inside of five minutes the Greased
Lightning was anchored in front of us. Old man Huckleberries was still
hankering to interview Todd with the pitchfork, but Becky settled that
all right. She jumped in front of him, and her eyes snapped and her feet
stamped and her fingers flew. And 'twould have done you good to see her
dad shrivel up and get humble. I always had thought that a woman wasn't