gons rattlin' behind.
It was easy to guess what's up then. One of the farm teams has been
scared.

Next thing that was clear was that there wa'n't any driver on the
waggon, and that them crazy horses was headed straight for that snarl
of pony carts. There wa'n't any yellin' done. I guess 'most every
body's throat was too choked up. I know mine was. I only hears one
sound above the bang and rattle of them hoofs and wheels. That was a
kind of a groan, and I looks down to see Mr. Twombley-Crane standin' up
in the seat of a tourin' car, his face the colour of a wax candle, and
such a look in his eyes as I ain't anxious to see on any man again.

Next minute he'd jumped. But it wa'n't any use. He was too far away,
and there was too big a crowd to get through. Even if he could have
got there soon enough, he couldn't have stopped them crazy brutes any
more'n he could have blocked a cannon ball.

I feels sick and faint in the pit of my stomach, and the one thing I
wants to do most just then is to shut my eyes. But I couldn't. I
couldn't look anywhere but at that pair of tearin' horses and them
broad iron wheels. And that's why I has a good view of something that
jumps out of the bushes, lands in a heap in the waggon, and then
scrambles toward the front seat as quick as a cat. I see the red hair
and the blue jersey, and that's enough. I knows it's that useless
Rusty Quinn playin' the fool.

Now, if he'd had a pair of arms like Jeffries, maybe there'd been some
hope of his pullin' down them horses inside the couple of hundred feet
there was between their front toe calks and where little Miss Gladys
was sittin' rooted to the cushions of her pony cart. But Rusty's
muscle development is about equal to that of a fourteen-year boy, and
it looks like he's goin' to do more harm than good when he grabs the
reins from the whip socket. But he stands up, plants his feet wide,
and settles back for the pull.

Almost before anyone sees his game, he's done the trick. There's a
smash that sounds like a buildin' fallin' down, a crackin' and
splinterin' of oak wood and iron, a rattlin' of trace chains, a couple
of soggy thumps,--and when the dust settles down we sees a grey horse
rollin' feet up on either side of a big maple, and at the foot of the
tree all that's left of that yellow and blue waggon. Rusty had put
what strength he had into one rein at just the right time, and the pole
had struck the trunk square in the middl