“A camel can live eight d-d-days,” says he, as sober as a judge.
“I ain’t a camel,” says I, getting pretty mad at the cool way he took it.
“We’ll have to stand it as long as we can,” says Mark. “It was a bad blunder. Worst I ever made, I guess. But,” says he, his little eyes sort of glinting, “I’ll be so dry the wind’ll blow me away before I s-s-surrender.”
“They say,” says I, still good and mad, “that the human body is three-quarters water. If that’s so there’s enough water mixed up with you to quench the thirst of General Grant’s armies.”
For once he didn’t say anything back, but he stored that up in his mind, you’d better believe, with the idea of getting even with me when the chance came. But that didn’t worry me. It was enough worry to think about being shut up for days without anything to drink.
I sat down on the railing and looked out over the lake, just thinking of things, general like. I must have got interested in what I was thinking about, for the next thing I knew I heard a voice over past the hotel yelling:
“Can’t you tell when I got the brake on, eh? Say! What kind of a automobeel be you, anyhow? I’ve throwed out the clutch and slammed on the brake, but you don’t pay no more ’tention than as if I hadn’t done nothin’ at all. Whoa, there!”
It was my friend that I’d met on the road and got to deliver the message. What he was doing here I couldn’t for the life of me guess, but I figured he’d come out of curiosity to find out what was going on. I called Mark and the boys.
The old fellow managed to stop his “engine” and sat staring over at us. I waved my hand and yelled at him—and then The Man and his followers just boiled across the bridge and went for the old fellow. He saw them coming and began to jerk and slap his lines.
“Hey, you!” he yelled. “Hain’t I pressed the self-starter button, eh? Then why don’t you start? Hain’t the lever in low? Git a stir on to you!”