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"A drive, two brassies, an approach, and forty puts, I presume?" "For a duffer, perhaps," retorted Adonis. A seventy-five-mile drive, a seventy-mile brassie, a loft over the canal for twenty-five miles, a forty-five-mile cleak, a thirty-mile approach, and " "A dead easy put of five miles!" I put in, making a pretence of being no longer astonished. "That's the idea," said Adonis.
"Takes a bit of fizzing to get into the Powell before the fourth sundown," the Fizzer says for, forgetting that there can be no change of horses, and leaving no time for a "spell" after the "seventy-five-mile dry " the time limit for that one hundred and fifty miles, in a country where four miles an hour is good travelling on good roads has been fixed at three and a half days.
Swinnerton planned to build a town out there in the heart of that fertile country where there are now a number of settlements and to have the P. C. & W. run a seventy-five-mile spur out that way. The management naturally will not stand for the expense of both roads at the same time, since both would be very largely in the nature of experiments.
Idaho for our honeymoon had to be abandoned, as three weeks was the longest vacation period we could wring from a soulless bond-house. But not even Idaho could have brought us more joy than our seventy-five-mile trip up the Rogue River in Southern Oregon.
"Water somewhere nearly every day, and a decent camp most nights." And although he speaks of the next hundred and fifty as being a "bit off during the Dry," he faces its seventy-five-mile dry stage, sitting loosely in the saddle, with the same cheery "So long, chaps."
There'll have to be a seventy-five-mile spur of railroad built, anyway, leaving the main line somewhere about Mohawk: we'd just as well count on hauling water from the Gila the first year. Them tanks will about run a ten-man gang a month after each rain, countin' in the team that does the hauling.
"Meanwhile it was getting late, and the bracing effect of the cold water of the Rappahannock was wearing off, and I began to feel the fatigue of an exciting day and a seventy-five-mile ride on top of nine other days with little to eat and not much rest. My wet clothes chilled me, and the last few miles I have never been able to remember distinctly I think I was misty in my mind.
Strung along for five miles in the rear, the remainder of the race strove to overtake them, but vainly, for to Louis Savoy alone was the glory given of keeping Jack Harrington's killing pace. As they swung into the seventy-five-mile station, Lon McFane dashed alongside; Wolf Fang in the lead caught Harrington's eye, and he knew that the race was his.
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