“So they sat themselves on the flying sea-shell”
IX
PETERKIN TAKES A FALL
NO sooner had Peterkin satisfied his hunger and wiped his mouth than the old farmer fussed and fidgeted to start on their journey. Peterkin couldn’t understand why he was in such a hurry—but then Peterkin had a full set of teeth, while the farmer had none. And it was in search of a new set that they were going.
So they sat themselves on the flying sea-shell and were off and away.
But it was strange what a creaking and groaning came from the faithful shell. True, it went up, up, as high as ever before; but it went so slowly and by such rickety jumps and bounds, as if its wings were lamed. The old farmer was almost jounced completely off his seat ten times. His long gray beard was tousling over his eyes in the helter-skelter rush of the wind. He well-nigh died of fright.
Peterkin, too, was afraid. Not that he wasn’t accustomed, by now, to this skimming through the clouds. But something was wrong ... yes, something was certainly wrong. His sea-shell had never acted this way before. Oh, listen! It was groaning and grunting now, louder than ever. Peterkin thought he could even hear a sharp cracking of its pearly cup. Suppose that it should break!