“Yes, ma’am, you did,” interposed Bill, eagerly. “But this is only the twenty-first, ma’am.”
She refused to notice the correction and waved her hand toward the coach.
“Get in, dears,” she said. “I do so hope it isn’t dirty and uncomfortable, and we have so far to go in it, too. Thirty miles–think of it!”
Bill thought of it, but refrained from offering correction. If Shields had said it was thirty miles when he knew it was eighty that was Shields’ affair, and he didn’t care to have any unpleasantness. He had offered correction about the date, and that was enough for him. Clambering down heavily he opened the side door of the vehicle and then helped the station agent put the trunks and valises and hat boxes on the hanging shelf behind the coach and saw that they were lashed securely into place. Then he threw the mail bag upon his seat, climbed after it and started on his journey with a whoop and rush, for this trip was to be a record-breaker. Shields had said it was thirty miles, and it behove the driver to make it seem as short as possible.
The unexpected arrival of the women had driven everything else from his mind, even The Orphan, and after he had covered a mile he had a strong desire to smoke. Giving his whip a jerk he threw it along the top of the coach and slipped the handle under his arm. Then he felt for his pouch, and as his fingers closed upon it he suddenly stiffened and gasped. He had forgotten The Orphan’s half pound! Swearing earnestly and badly frightened at the close call he had from incurring the anger of a man like the outlaw, he pulled on the reins with a suddenness which caused the sextet to lay back their ears and indulge in a few heartfelt kicks. But the darting whip kept peace and he swung around and returned to town.
As he drove past the station Mary Shields, the sheriff’s elder sister, poked her head out of the door and called to him.
“Driver!” she exclaimed. “Driver!”
Bill craned his neck and looked down.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied anxiously.
“Are we there already?” she asked.