"Down, Dick! Heigh ho, old boy; that machine is against my religion, but I’d go hunting in a negro hearse to-day. Besides," I said, with a twinge of conscience, "he’ll get us to the field in forty minutes, and the little mare is getting old and we’ve got a late start." I sighed and felt better. I had fought so long and said so much for the horse, and now—now—it was inexorable; they were being driven to their fate; they had to go before the relentless wheel of progress. I was virtually admitting it, I, who had said I’d never— I shouldered my gun. Somehow it didn’t seem like the old, joyous hunt. At the front gate the automobile stood, a pretty thing, to be sure. Its owner was smiling, goggle-eyed and all aglow, his hand on the wheel, or whatever you call the steering end of it. "Jump in, Jack, old man; we must be in a hurry. Slap Dick in there behind with my two setters. Be in a hurry! By George! I know where there are a dozen coveys, and we’ll be there in forty minutes. Hi, Dick! What’s the matter? Get in! Confound him, what’s the matter with that old dog?" I was lugging Dick and trying to get him in. He was kicking like a half-roped steer. He had always jumped to his place in the little buggy, but now— I knew what was the matter. Even Dick, dog that he was, had his principles, and he was man enough to say so. While I— I turned crimson. "Get in, old boy," I begged. "We’ll be there in a jiffy. Dead bird—good doggie." I got him in, with his head down and his tail between his legs. To all intents he was going to a funeral. I turned quickly away, for I could not stand the scorn and dumb reproach of his eyes. Right then I would have quit and gone back, but I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s feelings. "Jump in, jump in, let’s be going," he shouted, in his nervous, business way. "Oh, just a minute! There—you’re on the ground. Say, here, take this and give that starting crank a turn. I’m not very expert myself," he went on, "and I sometimes forget; but you’re on the ground—there—right there!" I gave her a whirl, several of them. I whirled her like blue blazes. I kept on whirling, while her owner grasped the wheel and his eyes danced nervously, as he expected her to flash into the throb that said steam was on. But she didn’t fire, and I kept cranking. "Faster, Jack, harder!" he cried. I whirled and whirled. I began to get warm. The sweat began to pour off. "Say," I said, gasping for breath, "this beats turning a grindstone. What the devil—" "Why, I canth—thee," he lisped, "turnth again—quick—a tharp, sthnappy onth!" I turned her again, quick, sharp and snappy. The thing pulled heavy and felt like an unoiled grindstone, just out of the store. My arms ached, the sweat poured off, and my back was nearly broken. I gave her a final desperate twist, and—there she was! Dead as a log wagon.