"We can't have railroads to every place," essayed a fellow-traveler, evidently a Virginian; "but you will find our soil good."
"Yes, good for sticking purposes," said the first speaker, trying to shake some of the mud from his boots; "I never saw soil with greater adhesive qualities."
"Now look 'ee," said the driver, "we'll hev some purty smart jogs, where the hosses 'll not be able to pull up, and you'll hev to put your shoulders agin the coach an' give us a push."
"May I be blessed!" ejaculated the Southerner. "They are not even content to make us walk, but want us to draw the coach."
"Better to do that an' hev a coach at the top to ride in than to walk three miles," said the driver.
After allowing his horses a brief rest, the driver cracked his whip and the lumbering coach moved on, the passengers slowly plodding along behind. None seemed pleased with the prospect of a walk up the long, muddy hill, but the grumbling Southerner manifested a more decided repugnance than either of the others.
"This is worse than wading through Carolina swamps waist deep," he exclaimed, as he trudged along, dragging his weary feet and mud-freighted boots after him.
The coach had not proceeded more than a dozen rods when it came to one of the "jogs" in the hill alluded to by the driver. "Now help here, or we'll stick sure. Git up!" cried the driver, and the poor, tired horses nerved themselves for the extra effort required of them. The ascent here was both steep and slippery, and it required the united strength of horses and passengers to pass the coach over the place.
Here the passengers discovered the prodigious strength which lay in the broad shoulders of Mr. Tompkins. Not a murmur had escaped his lips when required to walk up the hill, and he was the first to place his shoulder to the wheel to push the coach over the difficult passage. To still further increase the discomforts of their position they were thoroughly drenched by a passing shower which overtook them before they reach the summit of the hill. Here they again climbed into the coach, and resuming their seats, were whirled along through the gathering darkness toward the inn.
Old Jerry Lycan stood on the long porch of his old-fashioned Virginia tavern, and peered down the road through the gloom. It had been dark but a few moments. The old man's ears caught the sound of wheels coming down the road, and he knew the stage was not far off.