I turned pale. Up to this time I had felt secure. Now I understood something of the feelings of that pair of mules that never saw danger until they had passed it. "Why, I thought you knew all about it," I began. "Of course I do, but something might happen to me. You might be thrown on your own resources. Now here," he went on. "This little lever on the wheel is the spark-control—it quickens things—the next one is the throttle; that means more power. This is the switch-plug here: this is the clutch, and this the brake. Now, remember, and watch me start." He did, the thing starting slowly up the hill and then beginning to go in little jumps, exactly like a horse galloping. "Pull him down," I growled, "he’s broken his gait." For I felt every moment as if it would soon wabble and quit. But he kept galloping and I settled down and began unconsciously to wabble my body as I would in motion to a galloping horse. I couldn’t help it. I glanced at Horace, he was doing the same, but hitching at the side lever all the time, and we were bobbing like two Muscovy ducks over a mud hole. It was uncomfortable, it was uncanny. "Confound you," I growled, "I tell you the thing’s galloping—he’s all tangled up; bring him down." _Snap_ went something, and Horace breathed easy. "All right now," he said, as we began to climb the hill beautifully. Over the top we went, and then—down—down! How she did fly! My heart jumped into my throat! I held my breath and felt that same feeling I used to feel pumping in a swing when I’d soar up to the top and start down again, the same when I started down the elevator from the 19th story of the Masonic Temple and felt my legs give way and threw my arms around the neck of the elevator boy and begged him for heaven’s sake to stop until I got my breath and my legs in speaking distance of each other, and collected the rest of myself. "Stop her," I cried, "down-this-hill-I’m-feeling-queer-Lord-I’m-stop, I tell you!" "It’s easy," he laughed. "Do it yourself—on that brake—there—just to teach you—there!" Gasping for breath and pale with fright, I kicked up a little pedal. The thing jumped twenty feet! "Don’t!" I heard him yell, "Good Lord, that’s the throttle!" I saw a big ditch on the other side of us. I saw his hand dart quickly to his side. Like all man and woman-kind, in emergencies with a horse, I do the fool thing, grab at the reins. This instinct overpowered me. I grabbed the brakes to help him. I over-did it. It stopped too quickly; it actually kicked up behind. It stopped like a twelve-inch ball striking armor plate. I went over clear across the ditch. The three dogs were faithful and they followed. Horace tried it, but the steering wheel stopped him. "It was my fault," I said, as I limped up, after the dogs got off of me. "I grabbed at your reins, I guess—thought you were running away."