To the accompaniment of many shouts, the driver skilfully swung his horses around, the coach thundered up to the platform and stopped short.
"Pretty well done, that," murmured Bob.
"Mornin', Jed—mornin', gents!"
The driver passed his lines over a convenient hook, surveyed the group critically for a moment, then climbed slowly down from his lofty perch.
In spite of his nickname, he was not a big man. A long, aquiline nose, a pair of restless, gray eyes, and a complexion bronzed a deep brown were his distinguishing features, and several of the boys also noted that he wore an extremely sour expression.
"Well, Bill Dugan," observed the station-master, pleasantly, "a regular party here to-day, an' all of 'em bound for the old Rickham House."
"I see 'em—my eyes is still good," grumbled Bill; "an' a sight of truck to hoist on the old rattleboard, too. You chaps is goin' to stay here all your lives, ain't yer?"
"Big Bill's" glance rested on the stout form of Dave Brandon.
"Oh, no, not so bad as that," laughed the poet laureate. "We'll give you a hand in getting the stuff aboard."
But the driver seemed to be in no particular hurry. He seated himself on one of the boxes, leaned back and folded his arms.