Can't you drive her?

About a hundred years ago, my Grandfather and his brother Jack hitched up a brand new, fancy buggy and headed for church on a Sunday morning. They had on their best suits and were looking sharp in their Father's fancy, expensive buggy.

Down the pike came their Uncle Jimmy. He was a hardbitten old Irishman. His wife and children had all died from tuberculosis and he hadn't much left to live for. Just his whisky and his prize horse, a trotter named Spokane. They say that Jimmy used to spend the weekend on the road, racing with anyone who came by. So when he pulled up alongside my Grandad and his brother, the race was on.

Jimmy and Spokane had already raced a few other buggies and old Spokane was worn out, or he would have won easily. But it turned into a very close race. With Grandad and his brother Jack (who had the reins) ready to turn into the churchyard and win the race, Uncle Jimmy cut them off. They wrecked the buggy, tore it all up, skidded through the crushed stone, shredding their clothes and bloodying their knees and elbows. They came up fighting mad.

Uncle Jimmy circled around and drove right up to them. "What's the matter, buddy, can't you drive her?" he said to Jack. Put the bud to Spokane and away they went.