They tried to go backward and forward and up in the air at the same time, and they pretty near did it. I don't see how Bob ever kept them in the road; but there wasn't any other place for 'em to go except into the river, and so it was up to him. As the storm went on, they kept getting worse—sort of accumulating more scare all the time—and by and by Bob said that he guessed Bess would better get out, even if it was pouring—that is, if he could hold 'em still long enough—but he couldn't. Every time he would try to stop 'em they'd back, and keep on backing and doing sixteen other things at the same time, and so after two or three attempts, he said,—
"Bess, I think it's too wet for you to get out."
"I think so too," she said. "I didn't bring my rubbers," and then we all laughed. Bess held her nerve beautifully.
We kept on down the road, and gradually the horses quieted some, although the storm didn't seem to die down much.
"Nice day for a picnic," said Uncle Rob.
"All kinds of a fine day," said Bob.
"Going to sit on the grass and eat sandwiches for supper, I suppose, Bess?"
