“Oh, well, look carefully, Bartley. If we met any one beyond the turn-out, I don't know what I should do,” pleaded the girl.
“I don't know what they would do,” said Bartley. “But it's their lookout now, if they come. Wrap your face up well, or put your head under the robe. I've got to hold my breath the next half-mile.” He loosed the reins, and sped the colt out of the shelter where he had halted. The wind struck them like an edge of steel, and, catching the powdery snow that their horse's hoofs beat up, sent it spinning and swirling far along the glistening levels on their lee. They felt the thrill of the go as if they were in some light boat leaping over a swift current. Marcia disdained to cover her face, if he must confront the wind, but after a few gasps she was glad to bend forward, and bury it in the long hair of the bearskin robe. When she lifted it, they were already past the siding, and she saw a cutter dashing toward them from the cover of the woods. “Bartley!” she screamed, “the sleigh!”
“Yes,” he shouted. “Some fool! There's going to be trouble here,” he added, checking his horse as he could. “They don't seem to know how to manage—It's a couple of women! Hold on! hold on!” he called. “Don't try to turn out! I'll turn out!”
The women pulled their horse's head this way and that, in apparent confusion, and then began to turn out into the trackless snow at the roadside, in spite of Bartley's frantic efforts to arrest them. They sank deeper and deeper into the drift; their horse plunged and struggled, and then their cutter went over, amidst their shrieks and cries for help.
Bartley drove up abreast of the wreck, and, saying, “Still, Jerry! Don't be afraid, Marcia,”—he put the reins into her hands, and sprang out to the rescue.
One of the women had been flung out free of the sleigh, and had already gathered herself up, and stood crying and wringing her hands; “Oh, Mr. Hubbard, Mr. Hubbard! Help Hannah! she's under there!”
“All right! Keep quiet, Mrs. Morrison! Take hold of your horse's head!” Bartley had first of all seized him by the bit, and pulled him to his feet; he was old and experienced in obedience, and he now stood waiting orders, patiently enough. Bartley seized the cutter and by an effort of all his strength righted it. The colt started and trembled, but Marcia called to him in Bartley's tone, “Still, Jerry!” and he obeyed her.
The girl, who had been caught under the overturned cutter, escaped like a wild thing out of a trap, when it was lifted, and, plunging some paces away, faced round upon her rescuer with the hood pulled straight and set comely to her face again, almost before he could ask, “Any bones broken, Hannah?”
“No!” she shouted. “Mother! mother! stop crying! Don't you see I'm not dead?” She leaped about, catching up this wrap and that, shaking the dry snow out of them, and flinging them back into the cutter, while she laughed in the wild tumult of her spirits. Bartley helped her pick up the fragments of the wreck, and joined her in making fun of the adventure. The wind hustled them, but they were warm in defiance of it with their jollity and their bustle.
“Why didn't you let me turn out?” demanded Bartley, as he and the girl stood on opposite sides of the cutter, rearranging the robes in it.