“Elisha Warren. I—”
He was interrupted. There was a sharp crack overhead, followed by a tremendous rattle and crash. Then down upon the buggy descended what, to Graves, appeared to be an avalanche of scratching, tearing twigs and branches. They ripped away the boot and laprobe and jammed him back against the seat, their sharp points against his breast. The buggy was jerked forward a few feet and stopped short.
He heard the clatter of hoofs and shouts of “Whoa!” and “Stand still!” He tried to rise, but the tangle of twigs before him seemed impenetrable, so he gave it up and remained where he was. Then, after an interval, came a hail from the darkness.
“Hi, there! Mr. Graves, ahoy! Hurt, be you?”
“No,” the lawyer’s tone was doubtful. “No—o, I—I guess not. That you, Captain?”
“Yes, it’s me. Stand still, you foolhead! Quit your hoppin’ up and down!” These commands were evidently addressed to the horse. “Glad you ain’t hurt. Better get out, hadn’t you?”
“I—I’m not sure that I can get out. What on earth has happened?”
“Tree limb carried away. Lucky for us we got the brush end, ’stead of the butt. Scooch down and see if you can’t wriggle out underneath. I did.”
Mr. Graves obediently “scooched.” After a struggle he managed to slide under the tangle of branches and, at length, stood on his feet in the road beside the buggy. The great limb had fallen across the street, its heavy end near the walk. As the captain had said, it was fortunate for the travelers that the “brush” only had struck the carriage.
Graves found his companion standing at the horse’s head, holding the frightened animal by the bridle. The rain was descending in a flood.