“Just give us a chance, that’s all,” said Wagstaff, with a shake of his head.
Had the young men been watching Durrell and the driver at that moment, they would have seen a singular look pass between the two. It might have meant nothing, and it might have signified a good deal. No words were spoken, but the expression of their faces, to say the least, was peculiar.
“I should have said,” continued the driver, “that the chap may have learned something about that box, which was expected at Belmar, and which I was to take to Piketon with me.”
“What box?” asked Wagstaff.
“The one that is strapped onto the rear of the stage.”
“Jingo!” muttered Jim, “things are beginning to look dubious.”
“As I was about to say,” continued the driver, “if that chap has made up his mind to hold us up—and it looks mighty like it—this is the night it will be done.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Haven’t I got three passengers for Piketon, which is the biggest number I’ve took through in a couple of weeks, and, more’n all, that box is with me? The night is going to be as dark as a wolf’s mouth, and when we strike Black Bear Swamp—”
“Why do they call it Black Bear Swamp?” asked Durrell.