Thankfuls Inheritance | Page 5

West Ostable. At Bayport it had become a storm. At
Wellmouth Centre it was a gale and a miniature flood. And now, shut
up in the back part of the depot-wagon, with the roaring wind and
splashing, beating rain outside, Thankful's references to fish and ducks
and mermaids, even to Mount Ararat, seemed to Emily quite
appropriate. They had planned to spend the night at the East Wellmouth
hotel and visit the Barnes' property in the morning. But it was five long
miles to that hotel from the Wellmouth Centre station. Their progress
so far had been slow enough. Now they had stopped altogether.
A flash of light showed above the top of the carriage boot.

"Mercy on us!" cried Aunt Thankful. "Is that lightnin'? All we need to
make this complete is to be struck by lightnin'. No, 'tain't lightnin', it's
just the lantern. Our pilot's comin' back, I guess likely. Well, he ain't
been washed away, that's one comfort."
Winnie S., holding the lantern in his hand, reappeared beneath the boot.
Raindrops sparkled on his eyebrows, his nose and the point of his chin.
"Judas priest!" he gasped. "If this ain't--"
"You needn't say it. We'll agree with you," interrupted Mrs. Barnes,
hastily. "Is anything the matter?"
The driver's reply was in the form of elaborate sarcasm.
"Oh, no!" he drawled, "there wasn't nothin' the matter. Just a few
million pines blowed across the road and the breechin' busted and the
for'ard wheel about ready to come off, that's all. Maybe there's a few
other things I didn't notice, but that's all I see."
"Humph! Well, they'll do for a spell. How's the weather, any worse?"
"Worse? No! they ain't no worse made. Looks as if 'twas breakin' a
little over to west'ard, fur's that goes. But how in the nation we'll ever
fetch East Wellmouth, I don't know. Git dap! GIT DAP! Have you
growed fast?"
General Jackson pulled one foot after the other from the mud and the
wagon rocked and floundered as its pilot steered it past the fallen trees.
For the next twenty minutes no one spoke. Then Winnie S. breathed a
sigh of thankfulness.
"Well, we're out of that stretch of woods, anyhow," he declared. "And it
'tain't rainin' so hard, nuther. Cal'late we can get to civilization if that
breechin' holds and the pesky wheel don't come off. How are you, in aft
there; tolerable snug?"
Emily said nothing. Aunt Thankful chuckled at the word.

"Snug!" she repeated. "My, yes! If this water was salt we'd be as snug
as a couple of pickled mackerel. How far off is this civilization you're
talkin' about?"
"Well, our hotel where you're bound is a good two mile, but there's--
Judas priest! there goes that breechin' again!"
There was another halt while the breeching underwent temporary
repairs. The wind blew as hard as ever, but the rain had almost stopped.
A few minutes later it stopped altogether.
"There!" declared Winnie S. "The fust mile's gone. I don't know's I
hadn't ought to stop--"
Aunt Thankful interrupted. "Stop!" she cried. "For mercy sakes, don't
stop anywheres unless you have to. We've done nothin' but stop ever
since we started. Go on as far as you can while this-- this machine of
yours is wound up."
But that was not destined to be far. From beneath the forward end of
the depot-wagon sounded a most alarming creak, a long-drawn,
threatening groan. Winnie S. uttered his favorite exclamation.
"Judas priest!" he shouted. "There goes that wheel! I've, been expectin'
it."
He tugged at the right hand rein. General Jackson, who, having been
brought up in a seafaring community, had learned to answer his helm,
swerved sharply from the road. Emily screamed faintly.
"Where are you goin'?" demanded Mrs. Barnes.
The driver did not answer. The groan from beneath the carriage was
more ominously threatening than ever. And suddenly the threat was
fulfilled. The depot-wagon jerked on for a few feet and then, with a
crack, settled down to port in a most alarming fashion. Winnie S.
settled down with it, still holding tight to the reins and roaring
commands to General Jackson at the top of his lungs.

"Whoa!" he hollered. "Whoa! Stand still! Stand still where you be!
Whoa!"
General Jackson stood still. Generally speaking he needed but one hint
to do that. His commander climbed out, or fell out, from beneath the
boot. The ground upon which he fell was damp but firm.
"Whoa!" he roared again. Then scrambling to his feet he sprang toward
the wagon, which, the forward wheel detached and flat beneath it, was
resting on the remaining three in a fashion which promised total
capsizing at any moment.
"Be you hurt? Be you hurt?" demanded Winnie S.
From inside, the tightly drawn curtains there came