The boarding in the culvert made a jog in the road, and when the wagon struck this at top speed its body flipped behind like the tongue of a catapult.

The man with the gun, having eyes and senses only for the fire and his toiling fellow-Ancients, was unprepared.  He went up, out, and down in the dust, doggedly clinging to his gun.  He struck the ground with it still between his knees.  The impact of the butt discharged both barrels straight into the air.

Flanked by a roaring fire and howling crowd, and bombarded in the rear, even a horse with a bone spavin and the heaves will exhibit the spirit of Bucephalus.  One of the rotten reins broke at Marengo’s first terrified tug.  In less time than it takes to tell, Cap’n Aaron Sproul, desperate and beholding only one resource—­the tail flaunting over the dasher—­seized it and gave a seaman’s sturdy pull.  The tail came away in his hands and left only a wildly brandishing stump.  Even in that moment of horror, the Cap’n had eyes to see and wit to understand that this false tail was more of Marengo Todd’s horse-jockey guile.  The look that he turned on the enterprising doctor of caudal baldness was so perfectly diabolical that Marengo chose what seemed the lesser of two evils.  He precipitated himself over the back of the seat, dropped to the ground as lightly as a cat, ran wildly until he lost his footing, and dove into some wayside alders.  Cap’n Aaron Sproul was left alone with his newly acquired property!

When he hove in sight of his own house he saw Louada Murilla on the porch, gazing off at the smoke of the fire and evidently luxuriating in the consciousness that it was her husband who was that day leading the gallant forces of the Ancients.

As he stared wildly, home seemed his haven and the old house his rock of safety.  He did not understand enough about the vagaries of horses and wagons to appreciate the risk.  One rein still hung over the dasher.

“Only one jib down-haul left of all the riggin’,” he groaned, and then grabbed it and surged on it.

The horse swung out of the road, the wagon careering wildly on two wheels.  Sproul crossed the corner of some ploughed land, swept down a length of picket-fence, and came into his own lane, up which the horse staggered, near the end of his endurance.  The wagon swung and came to grief against the stone hitching-post at the corner of the porch.  Cap’n Sproul, encumbered still with buckets and bag and trumpet, floundered over the porch rail, through a tangled mass of woodbine vines, and into the arms of his distracted wife.

For five minutes after she had supported him to a chair she could do nothing but stare at him, with her hands clasped and her eyes goggling, and cry, “Aaron, Aaron, dear!” in crescendo.  His sole replies to her were hollow sounds in his throat that sounded like “unk!”

“Where have you been?” she cried.  “All gurry, and wet as sop?  If you are hurt what made ’em let their Chief come home all alone with that wild hoss?  Aaron, can’t you speak?”