I landed on the grass. Hawkins landed on me. Soaking wet, breathless, dazed, we sat up and stared at each other.
“I'm glad, Griggs,” said Hawkins, with a watery smile—“I'm glad you had sense enough to keep your grip going around that sprocket at the bottom. I knew we'd be all right if you didn't let go——”
“Hawkins,” I said viciously, “shut up!”
“But—oh, good Lord!”
I glanced toward the gate. The carriage was driving in. The ladies were in the carriage. Evidently the afternoon euchre had been postponed.
“There, Hawkins,” I gloated, “you can explain to your wife just why you knew we'd be all right. She'll be a sympathetic listener.”
Said Hawkins, with a sickly smile:
“Oh, Griggs!”
Said Mrs. Hawkins, gasping with horror as Patrick whipped the horses to our side——.
But never mind what Mrs. Hawkins said. This chronicle contains enough unpleasantness as it is. There are remarks which, when addressed to one, one feels were better left unsaid.