“Well, it’s the same all the way. It’s been just as bad from the start. What is the reason?” she persisted.
“Indeed, ma’am I don’t know,” he drawled, “some says it’s the Yankee carpet-baggers steals all the money—”
“Well, I don’t believe it—I believe it’s that the people are just shiftless,” Mrs. Welch fired back.
The man, for answer, only jerked his horse: “Git up!”
“A dull fellow,” thought Mrs. Welch, and presently she essayed again:
“The Yankees are thrifty enough. In all the North there is not such a road as this. I wish you could see their villages, how snug and trig and shipshape they are: houses painted, fences kept up, everything nice and neat.”
“Maybe, that’s where they puts the money they steals down here,” said the driver, more dryly than before.
Mrs. Welch grew hot, but she could not help being amused too.
“It must be an accident, but I’ll write that home,” thought she. She, however, had not much time to think. For just then they were descending a steep hill and the breeching gave way, the wagon ran down on the horse, and, without a second’s warning, the little steed, like the Gadarine swine, ran violently down the steep hill, and on up the road. The driver, who was swinging to him for life, was in the act of assuring Mrs. Welch that she need not be scared as he could hold him, when the rein broke and he went out suddenly backward over the wheel, and Mrs. Welch herself must soon have followed him, had not a horseman unexpectedly dashed up from behind and, spurring his fleet horse beside the tearing little beast in the wagon, seized the runaway by the bridle and brought it to a stand-still.
The transition from the expectation of immediate injury, if not death, to absolute security is itself a shock, and even after the vehicle was quite still, Mrs. Welch, who had been holding on to its sides with all her might, could hardly realize her escape. Her first thought was for the driver.