Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 17, 2025
Their rhythmic and leisurely trot jangled a loud but not unmusical bell which hung from some hidden part of the wagon's anatomy, and warned all dwellers on Rural Route No. 1 that the United States mail, ably piloted by Mr. Truman Hobart, was on its way. The jangling stopped at Applegate Farm, and Mr.
The teamster reined up, throwing his horses upon their haunches. Then, like a log, he fell headlong from his driving seat. Fyles turned with a bitter curse upon his lips for the criminal carelessness of his men. But he was given no time to vent it. A cry went up from the wagon's escort, and a hail of bullets rained upon the ambush.
Lacking exact information, the only thing a conscientious rank-conscious naval officer could do was exercise the maximum of tact and insistently ask authority for a ruling on Joe's place in the hierarchy of rank. Joe flung a leg over his eccentric, red-painted mount. He clipped his safety-belt, plugged in his suit air-supply to the space wagon's tanks, and spoke into his helmet transmitter.
From the street came a loud hum of voices, punctuated by shouts and commands, and from time to time there was a clanging of the gongs of ambulances and patrol wagon's. Then appeared the fat, comfortable face of Martha Shelton, and, later, Dr. Hentley came. Once, in a clear interval, through the thin wall Saxon heard the high opening notes of Mary's hysteria.
And, equally, he was indifferent to it. "Where are you haying now?" Fyles inquired presently. Charlie answered without turning from his work. "Half a mile down stream. Guess we all hay that way. There's no other sloughs handy on the west side of the village." "That's why the wagon's kept here?" "Sure. Saves the horses. They'll come out here to-morrow, and stop right here till we quit."
Colver was thrown violently from the wagon's high seat into the road, among the tumbling heavy boxes and barrels. The sharp corner of one box struck Mr. Colver's head near the temple. The weary horses waited to be urged forward again. They did not know that their driver lay insensible in the road. It was early gray morning before one of the teamsters who boarded at the Colvers' found Mr.
Caffre king will not rob in his own country, because he is afraid of the English; but if the wagon's robbed, and you are killed in this country, which is not his, then he make excuses, and say, 'I know nothing about it, Say that their people do it, not his people."
"I run into an outfit the other day, that's stored in town," he said, "an' it's kept me thinkin' ever since. Ain't no use tryin' to get you to guess it, because you can't. I'll tell you the swellest wagon-campin' outfit; anybody ever heard of. First of all, the wagon's a peacherino. Strong as they make 'em. It was made to order, upon Puget Sound, an' it was tested out all the way down here.
Perched on the edge of the depot wagon's front seat, the reins leading from his clenched fists through the slit in the "boot" to the rings on the collar of General Jackson, the aged horse, he expressed his opinion of the road, the night, and the job.
"The light wagon's got one hind spindle half in two, and I've spliced the hind ex for the last time." Jackson advanced an idea. "At Fort Hall," he said, "I've seed 'em cut a wagon in two an' make a two-wheel cart out'n hit. They're easier to git through mountains that way." "Now listen to that, Jesse!" Mrs. Wingate commented. "It's getting down to less and less every day.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking