"That is right, my good fellow," said Mr. Greeley. "I'll give you ten dollars when we get to Placerville. Now we are going!"
They were indeed, and at a terrible speed.
Crack, crack! went the whip, and again "that voice" split the air, "Get up! Hi-yi! G'long! Yip-yip."
And on they tore over stones and ruts, up hill and down, at a rate of speed never before achieved by stage horses.
Mr. Greeley, who had been bouncing from one end of the stage to the other like an India-rubber ball, managed to get his head out of the window, when he said:--
"Do-on't-on't-on't you-u-u think we-e-e-e shall get there by seven if we do-on't-on't go so fast?"
"I've got my orders!" That was all Henry Monk said. And on tore the coach.
It was becoming serious. Already the journalist was extremely sore from the terrible jolting--and again his head "might have been seen from the window."
"Sir," he said, "I don't care-care-air if we don't get there at seven."
"I've got my orders!" Fresh horses--forward again, faster than before--over rocks and stumps, on one of which the coach narrowly escaped turning a summerset.