Zee swung the car to the right to pass the wagon—too far—she was fairly in the ditch at the side—with a wild turn of the wheel they bumped into the road again, the fender banging the back wheel of the wagon.
"Hay, you blithering—" shouted the man angrily, and then, seeing their predicament, he pulled off to the side of the road and turned about in his seat staring after them.
Zee, panic-stricken at the collision, lost her wits completely, and couldn't remember how to stop it—but kept jamming desperately on the gas feeder, harder and harder, swinging along the road, swaying from side to side, while Treasure, with one long cry of agony slid into the bottom of the car and clasped her hands over her ears.
The car dashed madly on, and between bursts Zee pulled everything in sight and pushed everything she could find—but that car was a demon—it went over hills and through ditches like a thing possessed. It swung around wagons, and ran down a flock of chickens, and—oh, kindly Providence, which watches over straying preacher bodies—of its own free will, though guided, of course, by a friendly predestination—the car went slower, and slower, with a funny choking powerless sound quite unlike its natural brisk chug, and presently Zee's scattered wits returned to her. She turned the key, and the car stopped.
Treasure, sobbing pitifully, untangled herself from the gears, and stumbled out of the car.
"I—drove—it," quivered Zee, and she opened the door and stepped out—falling limply on the ground.
Treasure, forgetting her own plight, ran to Zee's assistance.
"Nothing at all's the matter," stammered Zee, smiling pluckily. "Just wobbly, that's all—can't stand on myself."
So Treasure sat down beside her in the road, and they had a heart-restoring cry in each other's tender arms, the dust of the road mingling with their bitter tears and leaving tell-tale tracks upon their sorry faces. Zee recovered first.
"Crazy old thing," she said with a vicious little kick at the bent fender. "I always said Doris should have chosen the cow."