escaped from the pages of a dime novel?" demanded Harry.

"No; he looks more like a hostler on a leave of absence from a
stranded Wild West show," Tom replied slowly.

There was plenty of time for them to inspect the stranger in question.
Tom and Harry were seated on a mountain springboard wagon drawn
by a pair of thin horses. Their driver, a boy of about eighteen,
sat on a tiny make-believe seat almost over the traces. This
youthful driver had been minding his own business so assiduously
during the past three hours that Harry had voted him a sullen
fellow. This however, the driver was not.

"Where did that party ahead come from, driver?" murmured Tom,
leaning forward. "Boston or Binghamton?"

"You mean the party ahead at the bend of the trail?" asked the
driver.

"Yes; he's the only stranger in sight."

"I guess he's a westerner, all right," answered the driver, after
a moment or two spent in thought.

"There! You see?" crowed Harry Hazelton triumphantly.

"If that fellow's a westerner, driver," Tom persisted, "have you
any idea how many days he has been west?"

"He doesn't belong to this state," the youthful driver answered.