“Run, you loon!” I hollers, desperate.

James didn’t wait for any advice.  He didn’t know what he’d done, I cal’late, but he jedged ’twas his move.  He dropped his gun and put down the shore like a wild man, with Lonesome after him.  I tried to foller, but my rheumatiz was too big a handicap; all I could do was yell.

You never’d have picked out Todd for a sprinter—­not to look at him, you wouldn’t—­but if he didn’t beat the record for his class just then I’ll eat my sou’wester.  He fairly flew, but Lonesome split tacks with him every time, and kept to wind’ard, into the bargain.  When they went out of sight amongst the sand hills ’twas anybody’s race.

I was scart.  I knew what Lonesome’s temper was, ’specially when it had been iled with some Wellmouth Port no-license liquor.  He’d been took up once for half killing some boys that tormented him, and I figgered if he got within pitchfork distance of the Todd critter he’d make him the leakiest divine that ever picked a text.  I commenced to hobble back after my gun.  It looked bad to me.

But I’d forgot sister Clarissa.  ’Fore I’d limped fur I heard her calling to me.

“Mr. Wingate,” says she, “get in here at once.”

There she was, setting on the seat of Lonesome’s wagon, holdin’ the reins and as cool as a white frost in October.

“Get in at once,” says she.  I jedged ’twas good advice, and took it.

“Proceed,” says she to the mare.  “Git dap!” says I, and we started.  When we rounded the sand hill we see the race in the distance.  Lonesome had gained a p’int or two, and Todd wa’n’t more’n four pitchforks in the lead.

“Make for the launch!” I whooped, between my hands.

The parson heard me and come about and broke for the shore.  The Greased Lightning had swung out about the length of her anchor rope, and the water wa’n’t deep.  Todd splashed in to his waist and climbed aboard.  He cut the roding just as Lonesome reached tide mark.  James, he sees it’s a close call, and he shins back to the engine, reaching it exactly at the time when the gent with the pitchfork laid hands on the rail.  Then the parson throws over the switch—­I’d shown him how, you remember—­and gives the starting wheel a full turn.

Well, you know the Greased Lightning?  She don’t linger to say farewell, not any to speak of, she don’t.  And this time she jumped like the cat that lit on the hot stove.  Lonesome, being balanced with his knees on the rail, pitches headfust into the cockpit.  Todd, jumping out of his way, falls overboard backward.  Next thing anybody knew, the launch was scooting for blue water like a streak of what she was named for, and the hunting chaplain was churning up foam like a mill wheel.

I yelled more orders than second mate on a coaster.  Todd bubbled and bellered.  Lonesome hung on to the rail of the cockpit and let his hair stand up to grow.  Nobody was cool but Clarissa, and she was an iceberg.  She had her good p’ints, that old maid did, drat her!