“Isn’t there any other bridge?” asked Mr. Jesson.
“Ya’as, but it’s ’bout a mile further daown, and a roundabout way ter git thar, and I’m in a hurry. Yer see Betsy Jane is mighty sick, and I’m goin’ arter ther doctor.”
“Where does he live?” asked Jack, imagining that Betsy Jane must be the farmer’s wife.
“’Cross ther crick a piece. Consarn it, what am I goin’ ter do?”
“Tell you what,” said Tom, “we’ll take you over in our machine, and bring you and the doctor back. You can leave the mule tied here.”
“What, me ride in thet contraption? Not but what it’s mighty good of ye ter offer it—but——”
“If it’s safe for us, it ought to be safe enough for you,” remarked Mr. Jesson.
“By heck! Thet’s so. Waal, since you’re so kind, I dunno if I care ef I do. By gum! won’t ther folks stare when I tell ’em I’ve rid in er airyoplane?”
“But this isn’t an aëroplane,” objected Tom, who was a stickler for facts, “it’s a dirigible.”
“Don’t keer ef it’s digestible er not, so long as yer daon’t spill me aout,” was the rejoinder.