"Philippa Blair, can you believe it's yourself?" I said mentally. "Here you are, lying on a brush bed on a western prairie in the middle of the night, at least twenty miles from any human being except another frail creature of your own sex. Yet you're not even frightened. You are very comfy and composed, and you're going right to sleep again."
And right to sleep again I went.
Our fifth day began ominously. We had made an early start and had driven about six miles when the calamity occurred. Kate turned a corner too sharply, to avoid a big boulder; there was a heart-breaking sound.
"The tongue of the wagon is broken," cried Kate in dismay. All too surely it was. We looked at each other blankly.
"What can we do?" I said.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Kate helplessly. When Kate felt helpless I thought things must be desperate indeed. We got out and investigated the damage.
"It's not a clean break," said Kate. "It's a long, slanting break. If we had a piece of rope I believe I could fix it."
"Mr. Lonsdale's piece of rope!" I cried.
"The very thing," said Kate, brightening up.