When a car with electric lights turned a corner and faced us, we were blinded and our presto lights seemed to go out altogether. They didn't even shine down as far as the road at our front wheels. Nor did they show us the bridge with its little wooden banisters. Well, I did see one banister a little—not much—but Papa didn't see it at all. He didn't even know there was a creek nor a bridge ahead of us.
As a matter of fact, Papa couldn't see the road or anything. But he figured that was not reason enough for him to stop and let the car with bright lights go by. He wasn't going more than ten miles an hour and he was reasonably certain there was nothing in the road to run over or bump into. All would be well just as soon as those bright lights got out of his eyes.
But the bridge got to us before our lights showed it to Papa, and our two right wheels didn't even touch the bridge. Our bumper took the entire banister and laid it out in the road ahead of us. Our front axle skidded all the way across the creek, riding the edge of the bridge. Our right front wheel went sailing across the stream in mid-air and rolled onto solid ground before our truck had time to turn over and fall off the bridge into the creek. So there we were, the two front wheels on solid ground, the left rear wheel on the shaky bridge, and the other rear wheel dangling in space over a creek of running water.
As we came to an abrupt stop, with the truck leaning and rocking right and left, Papa asked, "What was that?"
I told him, "You missed a bridge."
He said, "I didn't see a bridge."
By this time the car with the bright lights had gone away and we were left alone hanging over the side of a small bridge over a small stream in a small town.
The truck was leaning sharply toward my side. It had no doors, only curtains for bad weather. And since the weather was good, the curtains were stored away under the seat. Papa could get out easily on his side. I climbed out on the running board on my side, then up over the front fender, and jumped down off the front bumper. By this time our presto lights had gotten out front again and were shining their beams to show me where to jump.
We got a man to try to pull our truck off the bridge with his truck, but his truck couldn't drag ours. However, he finally got our truck off the bridge by lunging against the chain six or eight times, moving our truck a few inches each time.
Nothing was damaged except the bridge banister. We had already pitched it out of the road, so we paid the nice man for his services and drove on our way. I never did learn who repaired the banister. It couldn't have been the mayor; the town wasn't big enough for a mayor.