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There were teams coming along a cross-road ahead of them and teams rattling from the opposite direction toward the fire, approaching along the highway they were travelling. Collisions seemed inevitable. But in a moment of inspiration the Cap'n grabbed the trumpet that hung from its red cord around his neck and began to bellow in his turn: "Goff-off-errow, goff-off-errow!"
The peddler was driving sullenly, and without any particular enterprise. But this tumult behind made his horse prick up his ears and snort. When the nag mended his pace and began to lash out with straddling legs, the Cap'n yelled: "Let him go! Let him go! They want us to get off the road!" "Goff-off-errow!" the man still bellowed through the trumpet.
"Hecla" was coming! Four horses were dragging it, and two-score men were howling along with it, some riding, but the most of them clinging to the brake-beams and slamming along through the dust on foot. A man, perched beside the driver, was bellowing something through a trumpet that sounded like: "Goff-off-errow, goff-off-errow, goff-off-errow!"
Teams kept coming into sight ahead, and he had thought only for his monotonous bellow of "Goff-off-errow!" Disaster the certain disaster that they had despairingly accepted met them at the foot of Rines' hill, two miles beyond Ide's. The road curved sharply there to avoid "the Pugwash," as a particularly mushy and malodorous bog was called in local terminology.
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