Bob nodded. "How about the stage?" he inquired, anxiously.
"Oh, 'Big Bill' ain't never on time," volunteered the station-master, reassuringly; "that is, more'n once in about two months," he connected; "but he'll be here all right—don't worry yourselves—there!"
He stopped short, raised his arm, and the boys, following its direction with their eyes, saw on a short stretch of yellow road a dark object which had appeared in view from behind a ridge. It was far off and apparently moving at a snail's pace.
"'Big Bill,'" added the man, laconically.
"Bill isn't hurting his horses," remarked Sam Randall. "Crickets, I wish he would hurry."
"Bound for Isaac Barton's place, ain't you?" inquired the station-master, curiously. "'Big Bill' says, yisterday, as how some party was a-going to have the place this summer."
"Guessed it the first time," laughed Sam; "that is, if he ever gets us there."
Eager to reach their destination, time passed slowly indeed, and the boys breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the stage-coach finally resolved itself into definite shape, and the crack of the driver's whip came over the still air.
In the midst of a cloud of yellow dust, the coach, drawn by four dapple grays, rattled briskly along.
"Oh, ho, never was so glad to see anything in my life," observe Dave Brandon, resuming a standing posture.