“Pull him down,” I growled; “he’s broken his gait—” for I felt every moment as if it would soon wabble and quit. But he kept galloping and I settled down and began unconsciously to wabble my body as I would in motion to a galloping horse. I couldn’t help it. I glanced at Horatius—he was doing the same, but hitching at the side crank all the time, and we were bobbing like two Muscovy ducks over a mud hole.
It was uncomfortable—it was uncanny.
“Confound you,” I growled, “I tell you the thing’s galloping—he’s all tangled up; bring him down.”
Snap, went something, and Horatius breathed easy.
“All right now,” he said, as we began to climb the hill beautifully. Over the top we went, and then—down—down! How she did fly! My heart jumped into my throat. I held my breath and felt that same feeling I used to feel pumping in a swing when I’d soar up to the top and start down again. The same when I started down the elevator from the 19th story of the Masonic Temple and felt my legs give way and threw my arms around the neck of the elevator boy and begged him for heaven’s sake to stop until I got my breath and my legs in speaking distance of each other, and collected the rest of myself.
“Stop her,” I cried, “down—this—hill—I’m—feeling—queer—Lord—I’m—stop, I tell you!”
“It’s easy,” he laughed. “Do it yourself—on that brake—there—just to teach you—there!”
Gasping for breath and pale with fright, I kicked up the little pedal—
The thing bumped twenty feet!
“Don’t!” I heard him yell. “Good Lord, that’s the throttle!”