Page:Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, Volume 4.djvu/41

 the long, wet streets, like a phantom steed in a horrid dream.

Things really were becoming serious; midnight was approaching. I had not the remotest idea where we were, and the passers-by became more and more infrequent, lights vanished from windows, few cabs were seen and the world was evidently going to bed. The fog was rapidly extinguishing my voice, and anxiety quenching my courage. M's curls hung limp and wild about her face, and even M's spirits began to fail.

"I am afraid we are lost," she whispered in my ear.

"Not a doubt of it."

"The man must be tipsy, after all."

"That is evident."

"What will people think of us?"

"That we are tipsy also."

"What shall we do?"

"Nothing but sit here and drift about till morning. The man has probably tumbled off; this dreadful horse is evidently wound up and won't stop till he has run down; the fog is increasing, and nothing will bring us to a halt but a collision with some other shipwrecked Yankee, as lost and miserable as we are."