It was a beautiful morning a little after the middle of
September that the Rattletrap got away and left Prairie Flower
behind. The sun had been up only half an hour or so, and the
shadow of our craft stretched away across the dry gray plain like
a long black streak without end. The air was fresh and dewy. The
morning breeze was just beginning to stir, and down by the river
the acres of wild sunflowers were nodding the dew off their
heads, and beginning to roll in the first long waves which would
keep up all day like the rolling of the ocean. We shouted
"Good-bye" to Grandpa Oldberry and Squire Poinsett, but they only
shook their heads very seriously. The cows and horses picketed on
the prairie all about the little clump of houses which made up
the town looked at us with their eyes open extremely wide, and no
doubt said in their own languages, like Grandpa Oldberry, that
they had no recollection of seeing any such capers as this for
many years.
"See here," I said, suddenly, to Jack, "where's that dog you
said was going to follow us?"
"You just hold on," answered Jack.
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