"It's easy enough when you've got the knack," replied the "Lightning
Conductor."
"So, no doubt, is reeling, writhing, and fainting in coils. Motoring
down these serpentine hills is like hurling yourself into space, and
trusting to Providence."
"So is all of life," said Jack. "A timid man might say the same of
getting out of bed in the morning."
"Even I can do the trick," cut in Molly, who was taking a temporary
interest in our affairs again. "At least, I can this year, now that
chickens are better than they used to be."
"They _are_ looking nice and fat this summer" I judicially remarked.
"I don't mean that," explained Molly. "But they are more sensible.
Last year, before Jack and I were married, chickens were so bad that I
used to dream of nothing else in my sleep. I had chicken nightmares.
The absurd creatures never would realise when they were well off, but
even in the midst of laying a most important egg on one side of the
road, our automobile had only to come whizzing along to convince them
that salvation depended on getting across to the other. This year they
seem to have formed a sort of Chicken Club, a league of defence
against motors, and to have started a propaganda."
My imagination tricked me, or this theory of Molly's evoked a faint
sound of stifled mirth in the heart of the mysterious mushroom. In
haste I turned away, lest I should be suspected of regarding it, and
Jack began to pump my memory mercilessly for what it might retain of
his driving lessons.
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