“Guess this is the crossin' all right,” said the Captain, who had cherished some secret doubts. “Here's the deep part comin'. We'll be across in a jiffy.”
The water mounted to the hubs, then to the bottom of the carryall. Miss Davis' feet grew damp and she drew them up.
“Oh, Perez!” she faltered, “are you sure this is the ford?”
“Don't git scared, Pashy! I guess maybe we've got a little to one side of the track. I'll turn 'round and try again.”
But Horace Greeley was of a different mind. From long experience he knew that the way to cross a ford was to go straight ahead. The bottom of the carryall was awash.
“Port your hellum, you lubber!” shouted the driver, pulling with all his might on one rein. “Heave to! Come 'bout! Gybe! consarn you! gybe!”
Then Horace Greeley tried to obey orders, but it was too late. He endeavored to touch bottom with his forelegs, but could not; tried to swim with his hind ones, but found that impossible; then wallowed wildly to one side and snapped a shaft and the rotten whiffletree short off. The carryall tipped alarmingly and Miss Patience screamed.
“Whoa!” yelled the agitated Perez. “'Vast heavin'! belay!”
The animal, as much frightened by his driver's shouts as by the water, shot ahead and tried to tear himself loose. The other sun-warped and rotten shaft broke. The carryall was now floating, with the water covering the floor.
“No use; I'll have to cut away the wreck, or we'll be on our beam ends!” shouted the Captain.