shout--for there was no underground drainage, and the gutters belonged
to the Stone Age. There was a swift clocking and rattle, more shouts,
another bump, and a yell. And so on down the longish main street.
The stable-boy, who had left the horses in his excitement, burst into
the bar, shouting, "The Hypnertism's on, the Mesmerism's on! Ole
Mae's van's runnin' away with him without no horses all right!" The
crowd scuffled out into the street; there were some unfortunate horses
hanging up of course at the panel by the pub trough, and the first to
get to them jumped on and rode; the rest ran. The hall--where they
were clearing the willing professor out in favour of a "darnce"--and
the other pubs decanted their contents, and chance souls skipped for
the verandas of weather-board shanties out of which other souls popped
to see the runaway. They saw a weird horseman, or rather, something
like a camel (for Harry rode low, like Tod Sloan with his long back
humped--for effect)--apparently fleeing for its life in a veil of
dust, along the long white road, and some forty rods behind, an
unaccountable tilted coach careered in its own separate cloud of dust.
And from it came the shouts and yells. Men shouted and swore, women
screamed for their children, and kids whimpered. Some of the men
turned with an oath and stayed the panic with:

"It's only one of them flamin' motor-cars, you fools."

It might have been, and the yells the warning howls of a motorist who
had burst or lost his honk-kook and his head.

"It's runnin' away!" or "The toff's mad or drunk!" shouted
others. "It'll break its crimson back over the bridge."

"Let it!" was the verdict of some. "It's all the crimson carnal