“For goodness' sake,” gasped Jerrard, holding desperately to the seat, “why don't you get into the road?”
The driver, a French-Canadian turned and displayed an appreciative grin.
“Eet ban de ro'd vat you saw de re,” he explained, pointing his whip to the thoroughfare they were pursuing.
“This a road?” demanded Jerrard, with indignation.
“Oui, eet ban a tote-road.”
“I never heard of this kind before,” ejaculated Jerrard, between bumps, “but the name 'road' ought not to be disgraced in any such fashion. How much of it is there?”
“Sax mal'.”
“Six miles! All like this?”
“Aw-w-w some pretty well, some as much bad.”
“Well, I don't know just what you mean,” muttered Jerrard, “but I fear I can imagine.” After what seemed a long interval, and when Jerrard, dizzied by the bumps and the curves, believed that the end must be near,—for six miles are but an inconsiderable item to the traffic-manager of a thousand-mile system,—he asked how far they had come. The driver looked at the trees. “Wan mal', mabbee, an' some leetle more.” The railroad man opened his mouth to make a discourteous retort reflecting on the driver's judgment of distances, but just then one of the rear wheels slipped off a rock. It came down kerchunk. Jerrard bit his cheek and his tongue. After that he sat and held to his seat with a hopeless idea that the end of the road was running away from them.