In the midst of this pandemonium Tom and Jack and their uncle alone kept cool heads. Before the wagon had proceeded very far, the two Bungalow Boys were off after it, covering the ground in big leaps. But fast as they went, the wagon rumbled down the grade—which grew steeper as it neared the creek—just a little faster seemingly—than they did. Its tongue stuck straight out in front like the bowsprit of a vessel. It was for this point that both lads were aiming. Tom had a plan in his mind to avert the catastrophe that seemed almost inevitable.
Mustering every ounce of strength in his body, he made a spurt and succeeded in grasping the projecting tongue. In a second Jack was at his side.
“Swing her!” gasped out Tom. “It’s their only chance.”
But to swing over the tongue of a moving wagon when it is moving away from you is a pretty hard task. For a few seconds it looked as if, instead of succeeding in carrying out Tom’s suddenly-thought-of plan, both Bungalow Boys were going to be carried off by the wagon.
But a bit of rough ground gave them a foothold, and, exerting every ounce of power, the lads both shoved on the springy pole for all they were worth. Slowly it swung over, and the wagon altered its course.
“Steer her for that clump of bushes. They’ll stop her!” puffed out Tom.
“All right,” panted Jack, but as he gasped out the words there came an ominous sound:
Crack!
“Wow! The pole’s cracking!” yelled Jack.
The next instant the tough wood, which, strong as it seemed, was sun-dried and old, snapped off short in their hands under the unusual strain.