“Jump in, Trotwood, old man—we must be in a hurry. Slap Jack 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, Jack! what’s the matter? Get in! Confound him, what’s the matter with that old dog?” I was lugging Jack 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 Jack, dog that he was, had his principle, 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 whirl. I’m not very expert myself,” he went on, “and I sometimes forget; but you’re on the ground—there—right there!” I took the crank and put it in the spindle he pointed out. “Now give her a whirl, old man—a good twist—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 flash and I kept whirling. “Faster, Trotwood, 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. “Confound it,” I said, mopping my forehead and staggering up; “I could have curried the mare and hitched her up six times. Why, something’s wrong with your old gas-wagon,” I went on, getting hot. “I’ll not turn this crank any more,” I said; “I’ll be so sore in my arms I couldn’t hold my gun straight to-day.” He looked puzzled—annoyed. “Why, I can’t thee—” he began to lisp again. “What’s that you’ve got in your mouth?” I jerked out. “You don’t lisp that way naturally.” A smile broke over his face. He took out a little, black peg and roared. It was too funny—to him.