The passengers were beginning to develope those sparks of sociability which are elicited by the collisions with one another, and the stimulus to the brain resulting from sundry jolts inseparable from the vicissitudes of stage-coach traveling. In other words, the coach had proceeded about two miles, when, arriving at a place where there was some ascent in the road, it overtook three one-horse wagons, which made way for it to pass. Very soon, however, the two occupants of the hindmost wagon, (whom we will call Stark and Baker,) whipped up their steed, and rushed by the coach, like some saucy cutter shooting ahead of a seventy-four. After this demonstration, their horse, having gained four or five rods on the coach, subsided into a walk.
The correspondingly moderate movements which the driver of the coach was compelled to adopt, did not very well suit his views, as the icy road and his heavy load formed a combination of circumstances which rendered him anxious to make all possible speed, in order to fulfil the requirements of the U. S. Mail, as well as those of his passengers. But he was obliged to retain his humble position of follower to the wagon, for the road at that point was too narrow to admit of passing, and as no other means of attaining his object were at his command, he proceeded to try the effect of moral suasion.
"I say, you, there," shouted he to the obstinate couple in the wagon, who were smoking very much at their ease, and apparently busily engaged in conversation, "I wish you'd drive on faster, or let me go by you."
"Couldn't do it," replied the provoking Stark, "unless you'll race."
"It's none of my business to race," returned the driver; "all I want is to go on."
"Well, let's see you do it, then," said Stark, checking his horse still more.
They soon came to a wider portion of the road, and the stage driver attempted to pass the wagon, but was foiled by the dexterous manœuvring of Stark, who so accurately adjusted his motions to those of the stage-coach as to check-mate its presiding genius. Upon coming to a still wider place, the driver outsailed his persevering tormentor, and pushed on at a rapid rate, say seven knots an hour, indulging the sanguine hope that he was rid of his Old Man of the Sea. But this expectation was short-lived, for, on arriving at a curve in the road, where it was narrow and icy, he was compelled to "shorten sail," whereat Stark added wings to his speed, and
