“Wait!” called the latter. “We’re all going with you,” whereupon he insisted that the cabby and I should enter a sort of swan-boat directly in the rear. I felt a silly fool, but I saw there was nothing else to be done. Cousin Egbert himself mounted a horse he had called a “blue roan,” waved his hand to the proprietor, who switched a lever, the “Marseillaise” blared forth, and the platform began to revolve. As we moved, the Tuttle person whisked the handkerchief from off the eyes of his mount and with loud, shrill cries began to beat the sides of its head with his soft hat, bobbing about in his saddle, moreover, as if the beast were most unruly and like to dismount him. Cousin Egbert joined in the yelling, I am sorry to say, and lashed his beast as if he would overtake his companion. The cabman also became excited and shouted his utmost, apparently in the way of encouragement. Strange to say, I presume on account of the motion, I felt the thing was becoming infectious and was absurdly moved to join in the shouts, restraining myself with difficulty. I could distinctly imagine we were in the hunting field and riding the tails off the hounds, as one might say. In view of what was later most unjustly alleged of me, I think it as well to record now that, though I had partaken freely of the stimulants since our meeting with the Tuttle person, I was not intoxicated, nor until this moment had I felt even the slightest elation. Now, however, I did begin to feel conscious of a mild exhilaration, and to be aware that I was viewing the behaviour of my companions with a sort of superior but amused tolerance. I can account for this only by supposing that the swift revolutions of the carrousel had in some occult manner intensified or consummated, as one might say, the effect of my previous potations. I mean to say, the continued swirling about gave me a frothy feeling that was not unpleasant. As the contrivance came to rest, Cousin Egbert ran to the Tuttle person, who had dismounted, and warmly shook his hand, as did the cabby. “I certainly thought he had you there once, Jeff,” said Cousin Egbert. “Of all the twisters I ever saw, that outlaw is the worst.” “Wanted to roll me,” said the other, “but I learned him something.” It may not be credited, but at this moment I found myself examining the beast and saying: “He’s crocked himself up, sir--he’s gone tender at the heel.” I knew perfectly, it must be understood, that this was silly, and yet I further added, “I fancy he’s picked up a stone.” I mean to say, it was the most utter rot, pretending seriously that way. “You come away,” said Cousin Egbert. “Next thing you’ll be thinking you can ride him yourself.” I did in truth experience an earnest craving for more of the revolutions and said as much, adding that I rode at twelve stone. “Let him break his neck if he wants to,” urged the Tuttle person.