Mr. Bangs's answer was in the form of delicate sarcasm, bellowed into the ear trumpet.
“Sho!” he exclaimed. “I want to know! You don't say! Now you mention it, seems as if I had noticed a little air stirrin'.”
Another gust tilted the carriage top. Debby clutched the arm still tighter.
“Why, it blows awful hard!” she cried. “I'd no idee it blew like this.”
“Want to 'bout ship and go home again?” whooped Bailey, hopefully. But the widow didn't intend to give up the rare luxury of a “ride” which a kind Providence had cast in her way.
“No, no!” she answered. “I guess if you folks come all the way from Bayport I can stand it as fur's the Center. But hurry all you can, won't you? I'm kind of 'fraid of the springs.”
“Springs? What springs? Let go my arm, will you? It's goin' to sleep.”
Mrs. Beasley let go of the arm momentarily.
“I mean the springs on this carriage,” she explained. “Last time I lent it to anybody—Solon Davis, 'twas—he said the bolts underneath was pretty nigh rusted out, and about all that held the wagon part on was its own weight. So we'll have to be kind of careful.”
“Well—I—swan—to—MAN!” was Mr. Bangs's sole comment on the amazing disclosure; however, as an expression of concentrated and profound disgust it was quite sufficient. He spoke but once during the remainder of the trip to the “Center.” Then, when his passenger begged to know if “that Whittaker man” had been well since she left, he shouted: “Yes—EVER since,” and relapsed into his former gloomy silence.