“Girls, what shall we eat?” she asked.
“Speaking for myself as a modest person, I think I shall begin at the top of the menu and eat my way all the way down to the bottom,” observed Hippy solemnly amid the laughter of the others.
Luncheon finished, the party went out sight-seeing, and for a look at the ponies that Hippy had hired for the trip over the Old Apache Trail, on which journey they would have started on the following morning had Grace not chanced to discover the old Deadwood stagecoach.
At three o’clock that afternoon the party of Overton girls loaded their belongings, such as would be needed for a twenty-four hour jaunt, into an automobile, and drove to the stable where the stage driver, Ike Fairweather by name, was preparing to harness up the four horses that were to draw the coach.
Hippy removed his coat and assisted in the operations, while the girls inspected the stagecoach and stowed away their belongings.
Emma’s nose went up ever so little when she peered into the interior of the vehicle, observing the old rickety wooden seats, the tattered curtains and the cracks in the warped flooring.
“If this old ark lasts until we get out of town, I am no prophet,” she declared. “What if it breaks down?”
“We can walk, just as some of us have had to do in France when an ambulance went out of commission,” answered Grace laughingly. She then placed blankets on the hardwood seats and packed their provisions underneath.
By this time Ike was hooking up the four horses. That he was an experienced man Grace saw after observing him critically for a few moments, and she was certain that they could safely trust themselves to his driving.
“I have a lurking idea that the girls of this outfit are in for a ride that they will not soon forget, even though things look favorable,” she thought, smiling to herself.