unceremoniously the driver pulled and hauled him about, in getting him
into his seat.

"There! hold on there," said the driver to him, in a stern
voice,--"hold on well, or you'll be down head foremost under the
horses' heels, at the first pitch we come to."

The poor sailor said nothing, but grasped an iron bar which passed
from the top of the coach down by the side of the seat, and held on as
well as he could.

They rode on in this manner for some miles, the head of the sailor
swinging back and forth, helplessly, as if he was nearly asleep.
Whenever Marco or the driver spoke to him, he either answered in a
thick and sleepy tone of voice, or he did not reply at all. Marco
watched him for a time, being continually afraid that he would fall
off. He could do nothing, however, to help him, for he himself was
sitting at one end of the seat while the sailor was upon the other,
the driver being between them. In the mean time the sun gradually went
down and the twilight came on, and as the shadows extended themselves
slowly over the landscape, Marco began to find riding outside less
pleasant than it had been before, and he thought that, on the whole,
he should be very glad when the time arrived for him to get into the
coach again, with his cousin.

At length they came to a bridge, covered with planks, which led across
a small stream. It was in rather a solitary place, with woods on each
side of the road. Beyond the bridge there was a level piece of road
for a short distance, and then a gentle ascent, with a farmhouse near
the top of it, on the right hand side of the road. At the end of the