IT WAS twilight of the second day. They had exchanged the stage-coach for a rude wagon, which jolted uncomfortably over the rough roads. They had traveled for the greater part of two days, yet were less than eighty miles from San Francisco. It was a wearisome mode of traveling, and they were all tired. The party consisted of but four: Gates, Morton, Tom, and a stout Dutchman, who bewailed his miseries most of all.
“I don’t call this traveling for pleasure,” said Gates, as he was jolted off his seat.
“Nor I,” said Morton. “I wish I had never left San Francisco.”
“Oh, well,” said Tom, who, being younger, was more hopeful than the rest, “it won’t last forever.”
“What is dat you say?” broke in the German. “Forever! Gott in Himmel! I hope not. I think I shall never see meine Frau and die Kinder once more at all.”
“Oh, yes, you will, mein Herr,” said Tom. “You will go back with a big lump of gold, and live happy ever after.”
“If I do not get killed first,” said the German dubiously. “Gott in Himmel, where am I going?”
As he spoke, in consequence of a sudden jolt the unhappy German tumbled over backwards upon the floor of the wagon, there being no back to the seat, and lay on his back incapable of sitting up.
“Ich bin toldt!” he groaned, “ich denke dat my bones are broke in two.”