This haste was a mistake. Down went one forward wheel into a hole and crack went the axle. It was far too tough a stick of oak to break short off; but the crack yawned, finger-wide, and with a serious visage Mack climbed down, after quieting his mules.
The teamster’s remarks were vividly picturesque, to say the least. Frances, too, was troubled by the delay. The sun was now low behind them–disappearing below distant line of low, rolling hills.
Pratt got off his horse immediately and offered to help. And Mack needed his assistance.
“Lucky you was riding along with us, Mister,” grumbled the teamster. “We got to jack up the old contraption, and splice the axle together. I got wire and pliers in the tool box and here’s the wagon-jack.”
He flung the implements out upon the ground. They set to work, Pratt removing his coat and doing his full share.
Meanwhile Frances sat on her pony quietly, occasionally riding around the stalled wagon so as to get a clear view of the plain all about. For a long time not a moving object crossed her line of vision.
“Who you looking for, Frances?” Pratt asked her, once.
“Oh, nobody,” replied the girl.
“Do you expect that fellow is still trailing us?” he went on, curiously.
“No-o. I think not.”