So saying, he plants his feet firmly out, takes a better grip of the reins, and crams his hat well on to his head. We ignorant new-chums sit perturbed, for we don't know what is coming, only we do not admire the grim determination of our driver's mouth, or the devilry flashing from his eyes. The rest of the passengers say nothing. They know Dandy Jack, and are philosophically resigned to their fate. And now we plunge down the side of a gully, steep and wooded, with a brawling torrent pouring along its bottom. The road runs obliquely down the incline, and this descent we proceed to accomplish at a furious gallop, Dandy Jack shouting and encouraging his horses; his mate riding beside them, and flogging them to harder exertions. Then we see what is before us. Right at the bottom of the steep road is a bridge across the creek; or, at least, what was once a bridge, for a freshet or something seems to have torn it partially up. Originally built by throwing tree-trunks across from bank to bank, and covering these with planking, what we now see seems little more than a bare skeleton; for nearly all the planking is gone, and only the rough bare logs remain--and of these several are displaced, so that uncomfortable-looking gaps appear. Some feet below the level of this ruined bridge a regular cataract is flowing. Across the frail scaffolding--you can call it no more--that spans the torrent, it is clearly Dandy Jack's intention to hurl the coach, trusting to the impetus to get it over. We shut our eyes in utter despair of a safe issue, and hold on to our seats with the clutch of drowning men. It is all that we can do. Meanwhile the four horses, maddened by the whoops and lashes of our excited Jehu and his aid, are tearing down the slope at racing speed. The coach is bounding, rocking, jolting at their heels in frightfully dangerous fashion. We dare not glance at Dandy Jack, but we feel that he is in his element; and that, consequently, we are in deadly peril. Then the chorus of yells grows louder and fiercer, the swish of the whips more constant and furious. There is a tremendous rattle, a series of awful bumps that seem to dislocate every bone in my body, a feeling that the coach is somersaulting, I appear to be flying through space among the stars, and then--all is blank. When I recall my shocked and scattered senses, a minute or two later, I find myself half-buried, head downward, among moss and fern. I pick myself out of that, and stupidly feel myself all over, fortunately finding that I have sustained no particular injury. Then I survey the scene.