"Well, you haven't told me who I can get to take us over," Miss Bradbury reminded him, abandoning the subject of the widow.
"There hain't nobody," replied the station-master succinctly.
The owner of the wagon and the discouraged horses had come forth from the freight end of the station at the beginning of this conversation to which he had attended with rapt attention, his jaws slowly moving up and down as he leaned forward, elbows on knees on the cart seat which he had ascended.
"You couldn't come back after her, Jake?" suggested the station-master turning to him.
The man shook his head. "Goin' after a load," he said, not specifying of what. "Mebbe I could send Pete Kuntz back after her; his hosses hain't haulin'."
"Pete couldn't take 'em all—two, four, eight of 'em," said the station-master reflectively. "He couldn't come back after another load, neither; 'twould make it too late. That's a bad road up along past Eli's, before you come to the Bittenbender place. If I was you, livin' up that way, I'd see if I couldn't git the road overseer to work that road. I declare I'd ruther come down with my team and work it myself, if I wuz you, even if 'twan't part of my reg'lar road tax, before I'd ride it as 'tis."
"That overseer hain't worth nothin'," declared the driver. "I wisht George Lieder had got it—I'd er voted fer him, I would, if they'd er put him up."
"Don't you think there's any way that this Pete you spoke of could get us over?" interrupted Miss Bradbury. "And wouldn't it be better to decide on something soon? It grows dark early, and my friend is ill."
"Well, I guess!" said the man on the wagon. "There'd be nine of you with Pete. Say, I never thought! Pete might go up an' git my three seated hack wagon, an' take 'em all to oncet, usin' his team. Say, wouldn't that fix it, Jimmy?"
"I guess," assented the station-master.