We was heaving cargo overboard like a leaky ship
in a typhoon. Out of the tail of my eye I see Lonesome, well out to sea,
heading the Greased Lightning for the beach.
Clarissa put in the time soothing James, who had a serious case of the
scart-to-deaths, and calling me an "utter barbarian" for driving so
fast. Lucky for all hands, she had to hold on tight to keep from being
jounced out, 'long with the rest of movables, so she couldn't take
the reins. As for me, I wa'n't paying much attention to her--'twas the
Cut-Through that was disturbing MY mind.
When you drive down to Lonesome P'int you have to ford the
"Cut-Through." It's a strip of water between the bay and the ocean, and
'tain't very wide nor deep at low tide. But the tide was coming in now,
and, more'n that, the mare wa'n't headed for the ford. She was cuttin'
cross-lots on her own hook, and wouldn't answer the helm.
We struck that Cut-Through about a hundred yards east of the ford, and
in two shakes we was hub deep in salt water. 'Fore the Todds could
do anything but holler the wagon was afloat and the mare was all but
swimming. But she kept right on. Bless her, you COULDN'T stop her!
We crossed the first channel and come out on a flat where 'twasn't
more'n two foot deep then. I commenced to feel better. There was another
channel ahead of us, but I figured we'd navigate that same as we had the
first one. And then the most outrageous thing happened.
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