p ditch at the side of the road. It wavered an instant--then there
was a heartrending crash--and the canary-coloured cart, their pride and
their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an irredeemable wreck.

The Rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with passion.
'You villains!' he shouted, shaking both fists, 'You scoundrels, you
highwaymen, you--you--roadhogs!--I'll have the law of you! I'll report
you! I'll take you through all the Courts!' His home-sickness had quite
slipped away from him, and for the moment he was the skipper of the
canary-coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the reckless jockeying of
rival mariners, and he was trying to recollect all the fine and biting
things he used to say to masters of steam-launches when their wash, as
they drove too near the bank, used to flood his parlour-carpet at home.

Toad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs
stretched out before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the
disappearing motor-car. He breathed short, his face wore a placid
satisfied expression, and at intervals he faintly murmured 'Poop-poop!'

The Mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in
doing after a time. Then he went to look at the cart, on its side in the
ditch. It was indeed a sorry sight. Panels and windows smashed, axles
hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the wide
world, and the bird in the bird-cage sobbing pitifully and calling to be
let out.

The Rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient
to right the cart. 'Hi! Toad!' they cried. 'Come and bear a hand, can't
you!'

The Toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so
they went to see what was the matter with him. They found him in a sort
of a trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the
dusty wake of their destroyer. At intervals he was still heard to murmur
'Poop-poop!'

The Rat shook him by the shoulder. 'Are you coming to help us, Toad?' he
demanded sternly.

'Glorious, stirring sight!' murmured Toad, never offering to move. 'The
poetry of motion! The REAL way to travel! The ONLY way to travel! Here
to-day--in next week to-morrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities
jumped--always somebody else's horizon! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O
my!'

'O STOP being an ass, Toad!' cried the Mole despairingly.

'And to think I never KNEW!' went on the Toad in a dreamy monotone. 'All
those wasted yea