“Well, if you're not going on to-night, I'd get off and stop there.”
“I reckon your head's level, stranger,” said Bill approvingly; “for they're about chock full at the Springs' House.”
To descend, the passenger was obliged to pass out by the middle seat and before the young editor. As he did so he cast a shy look on him and, leaning over, said hesitatingly, in a lower voice: “I don't think you will be able to get in at the Springs Hotel. If—if—you care to come with me to—to—the ranch, I can take care of you.”
The young editor—a man of action—paused for an instant only. Then seizing his bag, he said promptly: “Thank you,” and followed his newly-found friend to the ground. The whip cracked, the coach rolled away.
“You know Wilkes?” he said.
“Ye-ee-s. He's my father.”
“Ah,” said the editor cheerfully, “then you're going home?”
“Yes.”
It was quite light in the open, and the stranger, after a moment's survey of the prospect,—a survey that, however, seemed to be characterized by his previous hesitation,—said: “This way,” crossed the road, and began to follow a quite plain but long disused wagon track along the slope. His manner was still so embarrassed that the young editor, after gayly repeating his thanks for his companion's thoughtful courtesy, followed him in silence. At the end of ten minutes they had reached some cultivated fields and orchards; the stranger brightened, although still with a preoccupied air, quickened his pace, and then suddenly stopped. When the editor reached his side he was gazing with apparently still greater perplexity upon the level, half obliterated, and blackened foundations of what had been a large farmhouse.
“Why, it's been burnt down!” he said thoughtfully.