CHAPTER IV.
AN EXPERIMENT.
Bertha heard with delight, listened eagerly, and sympathized heartily. When Max had told his tale, he went round to his handsome span of horses to take off their collars and headstalls.
"Stop a minute, Max," said Bertha, who held his lantern; "stop a minute,—if you are not too tired. We shall do nothing else to-night. Suppose we just try one trip,—just for fun."
"But you are not ready."
"I? I will be ready as soon as you are. See!" and she vanished into the harness-room. Max hardly believed her; but he did unfasten his horses, a little clumsily, led them round to the other end of the car, and hooked on the heavy cross-bar; ran open the sliding-door of the shop, and looked out upon the stars; went to the back platform and loosened the brake there; and then, as he stepped down, he met a spruce, wide-awake young fellow, who said, "Hurry up, driver! Time's up; can't wait all night here."
"Bertha, my child," cried Max, "your own mother would not know you!"
"As to that, we'll see," said the young man. "All aboard!" and she struck the bell above her head with the most knowing air.
The trouble was, as Max said afterward, to run the wheels into the street-rails when no one was passing. But he had, with a good deal of care, wedged in some bits of iron, which made an inclined plane on the outside of the outer rail, and as the car was always light when he started, the horses and he together soon caught the knack. A minute, and they were free of the road, bowling along at the regulation pace of seven miles an hour. For their trip down and back they were quite free from official criticism. The office was at the upper end of Madison Avenue, a mile or more above them.