“You didn't get to see the—the—daughter, Bill, did you?” asked Jeff, whose laugh had become quite uneasy.
“No, I didn't,” said Bill, with sudden and inexplicable vehemence, “and the less you see of her, Jefferson Briggs, the better for you.”
Too confounded and confused by Bill's manner to question further, Jeff remained silent until they drew up at the door of the “Half-way House.” But here another surprise awaited him. Mr. Mayfield, erect and dignified, stood upon the front porch as the coach drove up.
“Driver!” began Mr. Mayfield.
There was no reply.
“Driver,” said Mr. Mayfield, slightly weakening under Bill's eye, “I shall want you no longer. I have”—
“Is he speaking to me?” said Bill audibly to Jeff, “'cause they call me 'Yuba Bill' yer abouts.”
“He is,” said Jeff hastily.
“Mebbee he's drunk,” said Bill audibly; “a drop or two afore breakfast sometimes upsets his kind.”
“I was saying, Bill,” said Mr. Mayfield, becoming utterly limp and weak again under Bill's cold gray eyes, “that I've changed my mind, and shall stop here awhile. My daughter seems already benefited by the change. You can take my traps from the boot and leave them here.”