“Who’s that?” asked the driver.
“That Yankee that was sitting right here; he’s gone!”
“I guess not,” replied the driver, reaching back his hand and groping vaguely around; “he must be there.”
“He isn’t; he was here, but he’s missing.”
“Maybe he got so scared he took the back seat,” suggested Tom, who held his rifle in his left hand, while he passed his right through the vacancy in the rear of the stage; “no, I’ll be hanged if he is there; he isn’t in the stage.”
“That’s mighty queer,” remarked the driver; “I didn’t hear him get out, did you?”
“No, but I felt him; he was sitting right alongside of us, when something brushed past me and he was gone—there!”
Once more the lightning brought everything out with intense distinctness, and all saw that there were only three instead of four persons in the stage.
The New Englander was missing: what had become of him?
“I guess he was scared,” suggested Wagstaff, with a weak attempt to screw up his courage; “and preferred to hide among the trees rather than run the risk of meeting that stranger—”