“All aboard,” cried Frank. “The procession is going to start.”
Dwight and Barney hastily tumbled into the wagon.
Frank planted himself firmly on the seat and seized his reins.
The eyes of the horse, lit up by the fierce glare of the magnesium coils, threw a brilliant glow far out upon the level plain.
Frank pulled his whistle-cord, and the Steam Horse sent forth his shrill note of defiance.
Then the rods were pulled, and at the rate of about fifteen miles an hour, just an easy jog for the horse, away they went.
The prairie stretched out before them as bright and green as at noonday, for the magnesium light dispelled the gloom of night for fully half a mile ahead of their course.
The night was clear and starlit, and a low breeze just made it pleasant to dash over the level roadway.
Everything was working finely.
“Barney?” called Frank.