In addition to those penned up inside, there were two passengers positioned on top, to the rear of the driver, where they clung to the trunk railings to keep from being jostled off.
One was an elderly man, tall in stature and noticeably portly, with a florid countenance, cold gray eyes, and hair and beard of brown, freely mixed with silvery threads. He was elegantly attired, his costume being of the finest cloth and of the very latest cut: boots patent leathers, and hat glossy as a mirror; diamonds gleamed and sparkled on his immaculate shirt-bosom, on his fingers and from the seal of a heavy gold chain across his vest front.
The other personage was a counterpart of the first to every particular, save that while one was more than a semi-centenarian to years, the other was barely twenty. The same faultless elegance in dress, the same elaborate display of jewels, and the same haughty, aristocratic bearing produced in one was mirrored to the other.
They were father and son.
"Confound such a road!" growled the younger man, as the stage bounced him about like a rubber ball. "For my part I wish I had remained at home, instead of coming out into this outlandish region. It is perfectly awful."
"Y-y-y-e-s!" chattered the elder between the jolts and jerks—"it is not what it should be, that's true. But have patience; ere long we will reach our destination, and—"
"Get shot like poor Vansevere did!" sneered the other. "I tell you, governor, this is a desperate game you are playing."
The old man smiled, grimly.
"Desperate or not, we must carry it through to the end. Vansevere was not the right kind of a man to set after the young scamp."
"How do you mean?"