"This has been a fearful week," he soliloquized, "but I have done all I could."
The gentleman by his side, catching the last part of the remark, and supposing it had reference to the present journey, remarked:
"Yes, it is not the fault of the passengers, but of the managers of this line. They should be prepared for such emergencies, and have a supply of fresh horses."
Observing that his exclamation, though misinterpreted, had arrested attention, Mr. Tompkins, to guard against its recurrence, lest he should divulge the subject of his disturbed thoughts, aroused himself and resisted, with determination, the stupor that was overcoming him. It was while thus combating the fatigue that weighed him down that the stage-coach came to a very sudden stop.
The driver, pressing his face to the aperture at the top of the coach, cried out:
"Here we are at Lander's Hill, and I be hanged if the hosses are able to drag ye all up. They are completely fagged out, so I guess ye men folks'll hev to hoof it to the top, an' occasionally give us a push, or we'll stick here until mornin'."
"How far is it to where we can stop over night?" asked the passenger who had endeavored to draw Mr. Tompkins into conversation.
"After we git on top of the hill it's only 'bout three miles to Jerry Lycan's inn, where we'll stop for the night, an' it's down hill 'most all the way," replied the driver.
With much grumbling and many imprecations on the heads of the managers of the stage line, the passengers clambered out of the coach. A long, muddy hill, in places quite steep, lay before them. It was nearly half a mile to the top, and portions of the road were scarcely passable even in good weather.
"These are public roads in Virginia!" exclaimed one gentleman, as he alighted in the mud.