intelligence must confidently look for from such a statement. The
storyteller who willfully tempts Fate by such obvious beginnings; who is
to the expectant reader in danger of being robbed or half-murdered, or
frightened by an escaped lunatic, or introduced to his ladylove for the
first time, deserves to be detected. I am relieved to say that none of
these things occurred to me. The road from Wingdam to Slumgullion knew
no other banditti than the regularly licensed hotelkeepers; lunatics had
not yet reached such depth of imbecility as to ride of their own free
will in California stages; and my Laura, amiable and long-suffering as
she always is, could not, I fear, have borne up against these depressing
circumstances long enough to have made the slightest impression on me.

I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand, gazing doubtingly on the
vehicle. Even in the darkness the red dust of Wingdam was visible on its
roof and sides, and the red slime of Slumgullion clung tenaciously to
its wheels. I opened the door; the stage creaked easily, and in the
gloomy abyss the swaying straps beckoned me, like ghostly hands, to come
in now and have my sufferings out at once.

I must not omit to mention the occurrence of a circumstance which struck
me as appalling and mysterious. A lounger on the steps of the hotel,
who I had reason to suppose was not in any way connected with the stage
company, gravely descended, and walking toward the conveyance, tried
the handle of the door, opened it, expectorated in the carriage, and
returned to the hotel with a serious demeanor. Hardly had he resumed
his position when another individual, equally disinterested, impassively
walked down the steps, proceeded to the back of the stage, lifted it,
expectorated carefully on the axle, and returned slowly and pensively to
the hotel. A third spectator wearily disengaged himself from one of
the Ionic columns of the portico and walked to the box, remained for a