“Why didn't you let us know this before,” said the heavy man indignantly from the window.
“Jim,” said the driver with that slow deliberation which instantly enforced complete attention.
“Yes, Bill.”
“Have you got a spare copy of that reg'lar bulletin that the Stage Kempany issoos every ten minutes to each passenger to tell 'em where we are, how far it is to the next place, and wots the state o' the weather gin'rally?”
“No!” said the Expressman grimly, as he climbed to the box, “there's not one left. Why?”
“Cos the Emperor of Chiny's inside wantin' one! Hoop! Keep your seats down there! G'lang!” the whip cracked, there was a desperate splashing, a backward and forward jolting of the coach, the glistening wet flanks and tossing heads of the leaders seen for a moment opposite the windows, a sickening swirl of the whole body of the vehicle as if parting from its axles, a long straight dragging pull, and—presently the welcome sound of hoofs once more beating the firmer ground.
“Hi! Hold up—driver!”
It was the editor's quiet friend who was leaning from the window.
“Isn't Wilkes's ranch just off here?”
“Yes, half a mile along the ridge, I reckon,” returned the driver shortly.