away and left her alone.

"Well, ef he isn't the queerest lot I ever _did_ see!" said Mary Jane,
after convincing herself that he had really gone. "He hugs a girl
different from any man I ever heerd of; Dick could give him pints on the
subject and no mistake."

Prompted by coquetry and an earnest desire to arouse Joe's resentment,
she lavished attentions on Dick the next morning, much to this
individual's satisfaction. Her indignation was increased considerably at
Joe's unmistakable indifference. Indeed, he took so little notice of her
that after hastily swallowing a cup of coffee and refusing the viands
she placed before him, he devoted himself to his horses, fondling them,
calling each by name, rubbing their limbs, and adjusting the various
straps and buckles about the harness, until the stable boys set up their
shrill nasal cries:

"All aboard for You Bet! Here you are for Camptonville! This way for
Downieville, Blue Tent, Forest City!"

At the sound of a loud, piercing whistle every driver springs to the box
of his respective stage, the passengers take their places, crack go the
whips, and the coaches are off.

They were scarcely out of sight before Fulton began to regret that he
had persuaded his friend to remain over for a day's rest, for the doctor
was evidently chafing at the delay, and he seemed unaccountably out of
sorts. He wandered along the road, and evinced the greatest impatience
every time he consulted his watch. He questioned the landlord so
closely about the stage drivers that Fulton laughingly inquired whether
he proposed establishing an opposition company.

The day dragged its slow length along, and sunset brought the excitement
and bustle that accompanied the return of the stages. They came in at
intervals, each depositing its passengers, bundles, boxes, and
mail-bags, then disappearing in the direction of the stable. It was soon
observed that the Camptonville coach, usually one of the first, had not
returned. Supper was served at the customary hour, and by eight o'clock
the men had assembled in the bar-room; still no Camptonville coach. The
air was rife with conjecture.

"I say, Parkenson, wot's 'appened to 'er?" asked Captain Cullen; "she's
genally the fust in."

"I reckon we'll have to go out in search of her putty soon ef she don't
appear," replied the landlord, who was showing unmistakable signs of
uneasiness.

"'Taint likely the road agents has stopped her, is it?" asked Bowles, in