Tish was still in her petticoat, as we were obliged to leave her dress skirt in the tree, and Aggie was wrapped in the rug to prevent her taking cold.
“When we meet a buggy,” Tish said, “we’d better go past it rather fast. I don’t ache to be seen in a seersucker petticoat.”
“Fast,” I said, bitterly. “You’d better pray that we go past it at all.”
However, by going very slowly, I got the thing as far as the gate going into the road. Here there was a hill, and we began to move too rapidly.
“Slower,” said Tish. “You’ve got to make a turn here.”
“How?” I cried, frantically.
“Brake!” she yelled.
“Which foot?”
“Right foot. Right foot!”
However, it seems that my right foot was on the gas throttle at the time, which she had forgotten. I jammed my foot down hard, and the car seemed to lift out of the air. We went across the ditch, through a stake and rider fence, through a creek and up the other side of the bank, and brought up against a haystack with a terrific jolt.