We had an extensive ride through West Philadelphia; and candor compels me to say that some of the proprietors of hotels in that vicinity lost nothing by it.
At last, we found ourselves dashing down Darby Road: the noble steeds still fresh and vigorous, and we three “jolly boys” suffering nothing at all from the malady known as “depression of spirits.”
Rest! I thought not of it now. I remembered not that I had slept none for two nights. Away we went in the snow-storm; the wide fields of snow my imaginary bed, the murky clouds my curtains, the wind and sleigh-bells singing a merry song in concert to lull me to—wakefulness and mirth.
We approached a certain toll-gate. What hour it was, I can never know; but any one supposing it to be earlier than the beginning of another day, would subject himself to great ridicule among the “posted.”
“Wonder if the toll-man’s up?” said Feeny.
“Doubtful,” responded Aaron.
“We’ll wake him, of course,” said I.
“Certainly—if we can yell loud enough.”
We dashed onward. So far from tiring, our horses seemed to gain new strength and energy just then. The toll-gate and the little house there situated, were very near.
We did not slacken our speed.