"What, Dick Sands?" came a voice from the other side of the stove. It was the man in the butternut suit.
"Why, Dick Sands," replied the driver in a positive tone.
"Not Dick Sands?" The voice expressed not only surprise but incredulity.
"Yes, DICK SANDS," shouted the driver in a tone that carried with it his instant intention of breaking anybody's head who doubted the statement.
"Gosh! that so? When did he git out?" cried the butternut man.
"Oh, a month back. He's been up in Hell's Diggin's ever since." Then finding that no one impugned his veracity, he added in a milder tone: "His old mother's awful sick up to her sister's back of Millwood. He got word a while ago."
"Well, this gentleman's got to speak at the college, and our team won't be back in time." The landlord pronounced the word "gentleman" with emphasis. The white waistcoat had evidently gotten in its fine work.
"Let Dick walk," broke in the clerk. "He's used to it, and used to runnin', too"—this last with a dry laugh in spite of an angry glance from his employer.
"Well, Dick won't walk," snapped the driver, his voice rising. "He'll ride like a white man, he will, and that's all there is to it. His leg's bad ag'in."
These remarks were not aimed at me nor at the room. They were fired pointblank at the clerk. I kept silent; so did the clerk.