CHAPTER VIII
DUCKS
The Captain rapped on my door. It was pitch dark, and the wind, which had arisen during the night, was sweeping through the open windows, blowing the light curtains about. Also it was very cold.
"All right," I answered, took my resolution in my hands, and stepped forth.
Ten minutes later, by the light of a single candle, we were manipulating the coffee-and-egg machine, and devouring the tall pile of bread-and-butter sandwiches that had been left for us over night. Then, stepping as softly as we could in our clumping rubber boots, our arms burdened with guns and wraps, we stole into the outer darkness.
It was almost black, but we could dimly make out the treetops whipped about by the wind. Over by the stable we caught the intermittent flashes of many lanterns where the teamsters were feeding their stock. Presently a merry and vigorous rattle—rattle—rattle arose and came nearer. The Invigorator was ready and under way.
We put on all the coats and sweaters, and climbed aboard. The Captain spoke to his horses, and we were off.
That morning I had my first experience of a phenomenon I have never ceased admiring—and wondering at. I refer to the Captain's driving in the dark.