“Oats,” replied the driver, mournfully.
“Then where are the oats? Bring out the oats!” cried the Colonel.
“Aint got none. They’ve all giv out.”
“Then where’s the bag,” I cried, with a desperate idea. “Give me the bag, and I’ll start them.”
The driver threw me the big oat bag from the interior of the wagon. It fell into my arms like a collapsed balloon. Taking a position in front of the horses, I held it at arm’s length toward their noses.
“Now,” I cried to the guides; “get behind the wagon and push. Between two fires the engine cannot fail to move.”
“You’re mad! Tom,” cried the Colonel, with a look of supreme disgust.
“Never mind,” said I; “there’s method in my madness, as you’ll soon see;” and he did see, for the next moment the horses, sniffing the oat bags, sprang forward with a desperate spurt after me. All the way along the road, I held the oat bag dancing before their eyes like an ignus fatuus. At times, however, the animals half suspected the deceit, and seemed inclined to lose faith in the feeling of man and lag. This made our progress rather spasmodic; but they were never suffered to come to a halt, for at every threatened relapse the guides stood ready to do propeller-power behind.
“This is Rapid Transit with a vengeance,” cried the Colonel, as he strode after us convulsed with laughter.