his
mind.

"Very likely not," was his answer. Mr. Robinson instantly arrived at the
determination that the stranger was "stuck up," but was in no degree
cast down thereby.

"I heard Chet Timson tellin' that the' was a feller comin' f'm N'York to
work in Dave Harum's bank. Guess you're him, ain't ye?"

No answer this time: theory confirmed.

"My name's Robinson," imparted that individual. "I run the prince'ple
liv'ry to Homeville."

"Ah!" responded the passenger.

"What d'you say your name was?" asked Mr. Robinson, after he had steered
his team around one of the monuments to public spirit.

"It's Lenox," said John, thinking he might concede something to such
deserving perseverance, "but I don't remember mentioning it."

"Now I think on't, I guess you didn't," admitted Mr. Robinson. "Don't
think I ever knowed anybody of the name," he remarked. "Used to know
some folks name o' Lynch, but they couldn't 'a' ben no relations o'
your'n, I guess." This conjecture elicited no reply.

"Git up, goll darn ye!" he exclaimed, as one of the horses stumbled, and
he gave it a jerk and a cut of the whip. "Bought that hoss of Dave
Harum," he confided to his passenger. "Fact, I bought both on 'em of
him, an' dum well stuck I was, too," he added.

"You know Mr. Harum, then," said John, with a glimmer of interest. "Does
he deal in horses?"

"Wa'al, I guess I make eout to know him," asserted the "prince'ple
liv'ryman," "an' he'll git up 'n the middle o' the night any time to git
the best of a hoss trade. Be you goin' to work fer him?" he asked,
encouraged to press the question. "Goin' to take Timson's place?"

"Really," said John, in a tone which advanced Mr. Robinson's opinion to
a rooted conviction, "I have never heard of Mr. Timson."

"He's the feller that Dave's lettin' go," explained Mr. Robinson. "He's
ben in the bank a matter o' five or six year, but Dave got down on him
fer some little thing or other, an' he's got his walkin' papers. He says
to me, says he, 'If any feller thinks he c'n come up here f'm N'York or
anywheres else, he says, 'an' do Dave Harum's work to suit him, he'll
find he's bit off a dum sight more'n he c'n chaw. He'd better keep his
gripsack packed the hull time,' Chet says."

"I thought I'd sock it to the cuss a little," remarked Mr. Robinson in
recounting the conversation subsequently; and, in truth, it was not
elevating to the spirits of our friend, who found himself speculating
whether or no Ti