It was becoming serious. Already the journalist was extremely sore from the terrible jolting, and again his head "might have been seen" at the window.
"Sir," he said, "I don't care—care—air, if we don't get there at seven!"
"I've got my orders!" Fresh horses. Forward again, faster than before. Over rocks and stumps, on one of which the coach narrowly escaped turning a summerset.
"See here!" shrieked Mr. Greeley, "I don't care if we don't get there at all!"
"I've got my orders! I work for the California Stage Company, Ido. That's wot I work for. They said, 'git this man through by seving.' An' this man's goin' through. You bet! Gerlong! Whoo-ep!"
Another frightful jolt, and Mr. Greeley's bald head suddenly found its way through the roof of the coach, amidst the crash of small timbers and the ripping of strong canvas.
"Stop, you ——maniac!" he roared.
Again answered Henry Monk:
"I've got my orders! Keep your seat, Horace!"
At Mud Springs, a village a few miles from Placerville, they met a large delegation of the citizens of Placerville, who had come out to meet the celebrated editor, and escort him into town. There was a military company, a brass band, and a six-horse wagon load of beautiful damsels in milk-white dresses representing all the States in the Union. It was nearly dark now, but the delegation were amply provided with torches, and bonfires blazed all along the road to Placerville.