“Togo,” he holla, “come here!”
“I do so!” I response, so I make skilled wobble of wheel and drove Hon. Ottomobile up on platform, where he go for Hon. Boss so straight that this fatty gentleman start off with dodge run peculiar to ducks avoiding elephants. But Hon. Ottomobile was more quicker in the legs, so he pounce on Hon. Mr with rude affection peculiar to New Foundland dogs. Groans by him. Toots by otto. Then onwards I proceeded, still attempting to strangle that horsepower which would not quit.
Mr. Editor, you could not imagine such stubborn bullishness could be in anything not human. The more I twisted that wagon, the faster he go. Ditches, back fences and trees were splintered by his determination. At lastly, because I knew it would be convenient for me to die near the place where I was employed, I turned his nose toward home of Hon. Mrs Hopp.
We got there by very cross lots. Mrs. Hopp were standing by front gate when I whoofed by.
“Togo,” she yall as I pass, “Did you get my husband?”
“Yes, thanks—I got him plenty,” were smart reply I make.
Pretty soonly, by intense wheeling, I come back around block to where that sweet-hearted lady was.
“Put that car back in its stable!” she shreech like eagles.
“I obey!” was reply for me. So with all the Japanese courage I could demand from my ancestors, I turn Hon. Car through front fence, over vegetable garden, across clothes line. When I arrive to garage I put Hon. Car in very neatly, but Hon. Garage refuse to remain standing where he was, but followed in several fractions. 26 feet further on, Hon. Ottomobile, cursing like enraged kangaroos, lep over that cyclone and fall dead in heap of splinters. Nothing alive remained except a few wheels, pandemonium and me.
As soonly as my intellectual mind got back in place, I sat up, determined to see Hon. Mrs about resigning from that dangerous housework. But she saw me previously.