Now, it happened that the gasoline jaunting car was approaching from behind with considerable acceleration. I am sure the buzz wagon could not have been more than ten rods behind me when the cheffonier blew that blast on his horn, and the blasted thing made me jump.
And the machine was moving with such expedience that when I came down I alighted fairly on the cushioned seat in the tonneau.
By the time I got my breath and quieted the spasmatic beatings of my heart, I realized that I was comfortably languishing in a strictly first-class, up-to-date naughty-mobile that was taking me toward Boston a great deal faster than I could walk.
Besides yours truly, the only other person in the car was the driver, who was so preoccupied with his job of taking the road turns at about seventy miles an hour, that he had not even seemed casually to notice the unceremonious manner in which I had dropped in on him.
The old gocart was a good one. On looking it over with the eye of a cricket, I perceived at once that in the way of such machines it might be called the ne plus ulster.
I congratulated myself with impunity. What could be more satisfactory than to make a portion of my journey in this manner? With a sigh of contentment, I settled back, murmuring in dulcet tones:
“Let her rip, old boy! As long as you don’t try to hurdle a stone wall or climb a tree, you can’t feaze little Walter.”
Then came a sudden horrifying thought: My dog—my poor little dog Fido! What had become of him?
I turned to cast my eyes backward, but, fearing I might not recover them if I did so, I refrained, and simply looked.
That is, I tried to look, but the course astern was simply blotted out by a cloud of dust. There was so much dust in the air that it seemed to crowd itself for room. I felt sure we were tearing up the solid earth at such a rate that where the road had been there would remain nothing but a long, deep ditch after we had passed over it.