“That’s worse than ’twas before!” exclaimed Susan, giving the bonnet a pull that carried up one set of her mother’s puffs as neatly as if she had been scalped, and sent a side-comb flying to the ground.
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Lambert, putting out her hand for the comb, and beginning to look around for the shawl. “There, fling it on my arm; I c’n put it on in th’ stage.”
Mr. Tisbett rattling his whip against the dashboard, she stepped off the stone at the same minute that Susan twitched the puff into place. “You tell your pa he’ll find his clean shirt an’ stock on th’ bedroom bureau,” she called, looking back, “this aft’noon.”
“Yes,” said Susan.
“An’ don’t forgit th’ meat bilin’ in th’ pot.”
“No,” said Susan.
“Air you goin’ to git in?” asked Mr. Tisbett sarcastically, by this time holding the stage-door open, “or air ye goin’ to hold conversations only? Please let me know, ma’am, for I’m goin’ to start this ere stage.”
Here was Johnny’s opportunity. He seized the whip, and brought it smartly down on the off horse, with the result that Mr. Tisbett was laid flat on his back on the roadside,—round went the wheels, up flew the horses’ heels, and, in a cloud of dust, Johnny was driving down the turnpike.
“Th’ stage is goin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Lambert, starting in dismay, and huddling up her bag and shawl in a small heap together on her arm; “now I sha’n’t get to Hubbardville. Oh, be you hurt?” as Mr. Tisbett picked himself up, and plunged down the road after his vehicle.
He roared to some farmers at work in a field to help in the chase, pointing frantically to the lumbering stage ahead; but they had already stared at it, and now stopped to listen to him without stirring a muscle, as he dashed on. The only thing he could think of by way of possible comfort, was that the horses, through force of habit, might take it into their heads to go straight to the depot, which proved to be the case; Johnny being so paralyzed with the grandeur of driving, that he held the reins steadily all the way.