“'Fraid of the axle,” whooped Mr. Bangs in reply. “Nut's kind of loose, for one thing, and the way the wheel wobbles I'm scart she'll come off. Call this a road!” he snorted indignantly. “More like a plowed field a consider'ble sight. Jerushy, how she blows! No wonder they raise so many deef and dumb folks in Trumet. I'd talk sign language myself if I lived here. What's the use of wastin' strength pumpin' up words when they're blowed back down your throat fast enough to choke you? Git dap, Henry! Don't you see the meetin' house steeple? We're most there, thank the goodness.” In Trumet Center, which is not much of a center, Miss Dawes alighted from the buggy and entered a building bearing a sign with the words “Metropolitan Variety Store, Joshua Atwood, Prop'r, Groceries, Coal, Dry Goods, Insurance, Boots and Shoes, Garden Seeds, etc.” A smaller sign beneath this was lettered “Justice of the Peace,” and one below that read “Post Office.” She emerged a moment later, followed by an elderly person in a red cardigan jacket and overalls. “Take the fust turnin' to the left, marm,” he said pointing. “It's pretty nigh to East Trumet townhall. Fust house this side of the blacksmith shop. About two mile, I'd say. Windy day for drivin', ain't it? That horse of yours belongs in Bayport, I cal'late. Looks to me like--Hello, Bailey!” “Hello, Josh!” grunted Mr. Bangs, adding an explanatory aside to the effect that he knew Josh Atwood, the latter having once lived in Bayport. “But say,” he asked as they moved on once more, “have we got to go to EAST Trumet? Jerushy! that's the place where the wind COMES from. They raise it over there; anyhow, they don't raise much else. Whose house you goin' to?” He had asked the same question at least ten times since leaving home, and each time Miss Dawes had evaded it. She did so now, saying that she was sure she should know the house when they got to it. The two miles to East Trumet were worse than the twelve which they had come. The wind fairly shrieked here, for the road paralleled the edge of high sand bluffs close by the shore, and the ruts and “thank-you-marms” were trying to the temper. Bailey's was completely wrecked. “Teacher,” he snapped as they reached the crest of a long hill, and a quick grab at his hat alone prevented its starting on a balloon ascension, “get out a spell, will you? I've got to swear or bust, and 'long's you're aboard I can't swear. What you standin' still for, you?” he bellowed at poor Henry, the horse, who had stopped to rest. “I cal'late the critter thinks that last cyclone must have blowed me sky high, and he's waitin' to see where I light. Git dap!” “I guess I shall get out very soon now,” panted Phoebe. “There's the blacksmith shop over there near the next hill, and this house in the hollow must be the one I'm looking for.”