At last, with a square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down into their seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops,--and, after much outside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the door.
"Please, sir, it's powerful bad spot, this' yer.

I don't know how we's to get clar out.

I'm a thinkin' we'll have to be a gettin' rails." The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm foothold; down goes one foot an immeasurable depth,--he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles over into the mud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition, by Cudjoe.
But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones.

Western travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in the interesting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry their carriages out of mud holes, will have a respectful and mournful sympathy with our unfortunate hero.

We beg them to drop a silent tear, and pass on.
It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged, dripping and bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the door of a large farmhouse.
It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates; but at last the respectable proprietor appeared, and undid the door.