Snap went something, and Horace breathed easy.
"All right now," he said, as we began to climb the hill beautifully. Over the top we went, and then—down—down! How she did fly! My heart jumped into my throat! I held my breath and felt that same feeling I used to feel pumping in a swing when I'd soar up to the top and start down again, the same when I started down the elevator from the 19th story of the Masonic Temple and felt my legs give way and threw my arms around the neck of the elevator boy and begged him for heaven's sake to stop until I got my breath and my legs in speaking distance of each other, and collected the rest of myself.
"Stop her," I cried, "down-this-hill-I'm-feeling-queer-Lord-I'm-stop, I tell you!"
"It's easy," he laughed. "Do it yourself—on that brake—there—just to teach you—there!"
Gasping for breath and pale with fright, I kicked up a little pedal.
The thing jumped twenty feet!
"Don't!" I heard him yell, "Good Lord, that's the throttle!"
I saw a big ditch on the other side of us. I saw his hand dart quickly to his side.
Like all man and woman-kind, in emergencies with a horse, I do the fool thing, grab at the reins. This instinct overpowered me. I grabbed the brakes to help him. I over-did it. It stopped too quickly; it actually kicked up behind. It stopped like a twelve-inch ball striking armor plate. I went over clear across the ditch. The three dogs were faithful and they followed.
Horace tried it, but the steering wheel stopped him.