Say! talk about you’ flyin’-machines! Simpson let go his holt and took to the air, sailin’ up right easy fer a spell, flappin’ his wings all the time; then, doublin’ back somethin’ amazin’, and fin’lly comin’ down t’ light.
And that gasoline bronc of hisn–minute she got the bit, she acted plumb loco. She shassayed sideways fer a rod, buckin’ at ev’ry jump. Pretty soon, they was a turn, but she didn’t see it. She left the road and run agin the fence, cuttin’ the wires as clean in two as a pliers-man. Then, outen pure cussedness, seems like, she made towards a cottonwood, riz up on her hind laigs, clumb it a ways, knocked her wind out, pitched oncet ’r twicet, tumbled over on to her quarters, and begun t’ kick up her heels.
“He lay the kid lookin’ up and put his finger into her mouth”
I looked at Simpson. He’d been settin’ on the ground; but now he gits up, pullin’ at the rope gentle, like a lazy sucker. Say! but his face was ornamented!
I give him a nod. “Wal, Young-Man-That-Flies-Like-A-Bird?” I says, inquirin’.
He began to paw up the road like a mad bull. “I’ll make you pay fer this!” he bellered.
“You cain’t git blood outen a turnip,” I answers, sweet as sugar; and Maud backed a step ’r two, so’s the rope wouldn’t slack.
“How dast you do such a’ infameous thing!” he goes on.