Colonel Amen came running out of the barn barefoot, his hair full of straw, convinced that the Second Coming was at hand. Even above the roar of the motorcycle, Emaline could hear him start in on Revelation: His head and hairs white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes as a flame of fire… The hens scurried wildly to and fro in the yard, panicked by the machine. She wouldn’t be surprised if they stopped laying after such a fright. Jake turned and sat on the motorcycle, gunning the engine, revving up for another run. He popped the clutch, stood the bike up on its back wheel for thirty or forty feet, came again, racing up through the gears. This time she saw him wobble a little in the air before he got the machine under control and came down for a shaky landing. He roared off, made his turn, came back again, made three more jumps before he throttled down and eased the motorcycle up to where she stood. He pulled off the helmet and goggles. Colonel Amen headed back to the barn, muttering to himself, disappointed the Apocalypse was not at hand. Jake was grinning like a three-year-old with a toy truck.

“Aint that something else? I didn’t know if she’d make it, but she sailed right over the house, easy as pie.”

“Are you completely crazy? You scared me half to death. I was sound asleep. I thought we were being bombed or something.”

“Aw, don’t go gettin upset over nothin. I couldn’t sleep last night. I got to thinkin about a basement house like this, how a man on a motorcycle ought to be able to get up enough speed to fly right over. All I needed was planks, we got plenty of those. Had to wait till daylight to give her a try. By gosh, that’s a thrill. You ought to climb on the back, come with me. I think I can get up enough speed so it’ll carry us both on a jump.”

“You think? You are completely insane. I will never get on that thing again, much less jump over a house.”

“Gee, Em. I thought you’d see how it could be a helluva deal. We could get up a crowd. Sell tickets for a dime apiece. Sell watermelon and lemonade too. On a good Sunday afternoon, we might take in twenty or thirty dollars.”

“Honestly. Do you think folks have money to spare to watch you try to break your neck? We’re out here to farm, not to run some five-and-dime P. T. Barnum motorcycle stunt show.”

She stormed back into the house, leaving Jake to return the motorcycle to the shed. He came whistling in and looked at the stove as though he expected to see his breakfast frying.

“Aint breakfast ready yet?”