'My dear sir,' said Wych Hazel with a radiant face, 'we will get away to-night. I find that the bridge is not on our road, after all. So I said it was not worth while to get a room ready for me,—and the baggage might be just transferred.'
'To what?'
'To the other stage, sir. Or indeed I believe it is some sort of a baggage wagon—as the roads are heavy—not to speak of the passengers. It has gone on up the mountain.'
'What has?' exclaimed Mr. Falkirk, whose face was a study.
'The wagon,' said Miss Hazel, seating herself by the table.
'More particularly, your one trunk and my six, sir.'
'Where has it gone?'
'Up the mountain, sir. They were afraid of making the stage top heavy—the weight of intellect inside being small.'
'Do you mean, to Catskill?'
'Yes, sir. Poor little puss!—Does the vegetation hereabouts support nothing but pigs?' said Miss Hazel, with a despairing glance from the dish of ham to a yellow haired lassie in a blue gown, who just then brought in a pitcher of water. Mr. Falkirk waited till the damsel had withdrawn, and went to the window and came back again before he spoke.
'You should have consulted me, Miss Hazel. You are bewildered.
It is not a good time to go up the mountain now.'