Horace fumbled with a side brake a moment, touched a pedal and looked wise.
"What's all this for?" I said.
"I'm resting for a little headway before taking that steep hill. And say, while we're at it, you ought to know something about a machine, you might be called on to help me in an emergency."
I turned pale. Up to this time I had felt secure. Now I understood something of the feelings of that pair of mules that never saw danger until they had passed it.
"Why, I thought you knew all about it," I began.
"Of course I do, but something might happen to me. You might be thrown on your own resources. Now here," he went on. "This little lever on the wheel is the spark-control—it quickens things—the next one is the throttle; that means more power. This is the switch-plug here: this is the clutch, and this the brake. Now, remember, and watch me start."
He did, the thing starting slowly up the hill and then beginning to go in little jumps, exactly like a horse galloping.
"Pull him down," I growled, "he's broken his gait." For I felt every moment as if it would soon wabble and quit. But he kept galloping and I settled down and began unconsciously to wabble my body as I would in motion to a galloping horse. I couldn't help it. I glanced at Horace, he was doing the same, but hitching at the side lever all the time, and we were bobbing like two Muscovy ducks over a mud hole.
It was uncomfortable, it was uncanny.
"Confound you," I growled, "I tell you the thing's galloping—he's all tangled up; bring him down."