"What is the matter, driver?" said the passengers.
"Nothing," replied he, "only that drunkard of a sailor tumbled off the stage."
"Where?" "When?" exclaimed half a dozen voices. "Is he killed?"
"Killed? no," replied the driver; "I don't believe he is even sobered."
Forester and another gentleman then urgently asked where he was, and the driver told them that he was "back there a piece," as he expressed it.
"What! lying in the road?" said Forester; "open the door, and let us go and see to him."
"No," said the driver; "he has got off to the side of the road, safe. I don't believe he's hurt any. Let him take care of himself, and we'll drive on."
But Forester remonstrated strongly against leaving the poor sailor in such a condition, and in such a place; and finally it was agreed that the farmer should go down the road and see to him, so as to allow the stage-coach with the passengers to go on.
Forester was not willing, however, to have Marco ride outside any longer; and so they contrived to make room for him within. As Marco descended from his high seat, the driver said to him, as he passed him, in a low voice,
"How did you get the reins? I thought they all came down with me, under the horses' heels."