“Where are you goin'?” demanded Mrs. Barnes.
The driver did not answer. The groan from beneath the carriage was more ominously threatening than ever. And suddenly the threat was fulfilled. The depot-wagon jerked on for a few feet and then, with a crack, settled down to port in a most alarming fashion. Winnie S. settled down with it, still holding tight to the reins and roaring commands to General Jackson at the top of his lungs.
“Whoa!” he hollered. “Whoa! Stand still! Stand still where you be! Whoa!”
General Jackson stood still. Generally speaking he needed but one hint to do that. His commander climbed out, or fell out, from beneath the boot. The ground upon which he fell was damp but firm.
“Whoa!” he roared again. Then scrambling to his feet he sprang toward the wagon, which, the forward wheel detached and flat beneath it, was resting on the remaining three in a fashion which promised total capsizing at any moment.
“Be you hurt? Be you hurt?” demanded Winnie S.
From inside, the tightly drawn curtains there came a variety of sounds, screams, exclamations, and grunts as of someone gasping for breath.
“Be you hurt?” yelled the frantic Mr. Holt.
It was the voice of the younger passenger which first made coherent reply.
“No,” it panted. “No, I—I think I'm not hurt. But Aunt Thankful—Oh, Auntie, are you—”