“Well, we’re out of that stretch of woods, anyhow,” he declared.  “And it ‘tain’t rainin’ so hard, nuther.  Cal’late we can get to civilization if that breechin’ holds and the pesky wheel don’t come off.  How are you, in aft there; tolerable snug?”

Emily said nothing.  Aunt Thankful chuckled at the word.

“Snug!” she repeated.  “My, yes!  If this water was salt we’d be as snug as a couple of pickled mackerel.  How far off is this civilization you’re talkin’ about?”

“Well, our hotel where you’re bound is a good two mile, but there’s—­Judas priest! there goes that breechin’ again!”

There was another halt while the breeching underwent temporary repairs.  The wind blew as hard as ever, but the rain had almost stopped.  A few minutes later it stopped altogether.

“There!” declared Winnie S.  “The fust mile’s gone.  I don’t know’s I hadn’t ought to stop—­”

Aunt Thankful interrupted.  “Stop!” she cried.  “For mercy sakes, don’t stop anywheres unless you have to.  We’ve done nothin’ but stop ever since we started.  Go on as far as you can while this—­this machine of yours is wound up.”

But that was not destined to be far.  From beneath the forward end of the depot-wagon sounded a most alarming creak, a long-drawn, threatening groan.  Winnie S. uttered his favorite exclamation.

“Judas priest!” he shouted.  “There goes that wheel!  I’ve, been expectin’ it.”

He tugged at the right hand rein.  General Jackson, who, having been brought up in a seafaring community, had learned to answer his helm, swerved sharply from the road.  Emily screamed faintly.

“Where are you goin’?” demanded Mrs. Barnes.

The driver did not answer.  The groan from beneath the carriage was more ominously threatening than ever.  And suddenly the threat was fulfilled.  The depot-wagon jerked on for a few feet and then, with a crack, settled down to port in a most alarming fashion.  Winnie S. settled down with it, still holding tight to the reins and roaring commands to General Jackson at the top of his lungs.

“Whoa!” he hollered.  “Whoa!  Stand still!  Stand still where you be!  Whoa!”

General Jackson stood still.  Generally speaking he needed but one hint to do that.  His commander climbed out, or fell out, from beneath the boot.  The ground upon which he fell was damp but firm.

“Whoa!” he roared again.  Then scrambling to his feet he sprang toward the wagon, which, the forward wheel detached and flat beneath it, was resting on the remaining three in a fashion which promised total capsizing at any moment.

“Be you hurt?  Be you hurt?” demanded Winnie S.

From inside, the tightly drawn curtains there came a variety of sounds, screams, exclamations, and grunts as of someone gasping for breath.

“Be you hurt?” yelled the frantic Mr. Holt.

It was the voice of the younger passenger which first made coherent reply.