"My, ain't it funny!" exclaimed Rebecca. "Thet's the way I've felt afore now when the cars was goin' round a curve—kinder topplin' like."
"Why, that is the centrifugal force," Phœbe said, with dignity.
"It's the side weight—that's what I call it," Droop replied, obstinately, and for some time there was silence.
"How many years back are we makin' by the hour now, Mr. Droop?" Rebecca asked at length.
"Jest a little over two hours fer a year now," he replied.
"Well," said Rebecca, in a discontented tone, "I think the old Panchronicle is rayther a slow actin' concern, considerin' th' amount o' side weight it makes. I declare I'm mos' tired out leanin' over to one side, like old man Titus's paralytic cow."
Phœbe laughed and Droop replied:
"If ye can't stand it or set it, why lay, Cousin Rebecca. The's good settles all 'round."
With manifestly injured feelings Droop hunted up a book and sat down to read in silence. The Panchronicon was his pet and he did not relish its being thus contemned.
The remainder of the morning was spent in almost completely silent work or reading. Droop scarce took his eyes from his book. Phœbe spent part of the time deep in the Baconian work and part of the time contemplating the monotonous landscape. Rebecca was dreaming of her future past—or her past future, while her knitting grew steadily upon its needles.