greedy I could offer him a piece, just to show him that some women folk
have kind hearts, and that the whole sect ain’t like that Pink."

"Boy’s favorite," as adequate compensation for shattered ideals, a broken
heart, and the savings of a lifetime, seemed to Mary Carmichael inadequate
compensation, but she forbore to express her sentiments.

The fat lady had never relaxed her gaze from Chugg’s back since the stage
had started. She peered at that broad expanse of flannel shirt through the
tiny round window, like a careful sailing-master sweeping the horizon for
possible storm-clouds. At every portion of the road presenting a steep
decline she would prod Chugg in the back with the handle of her ample
umbrella, and demand that he let her out, as she preferred walking. The
stage-driver at first complied with these requests, but when he saw they
threatened to become chronic, he would send his team galloping down grade
at a rate to justify her liveliest fears.

"Do you think you are a-picnicking, that you crave roominating round these
yere solitoodes?" And the misanthrope cracked his whip and adjured his
team with cabalistic imprecations.

"Did you notice if Mrs. Dax giv’ him any cold coffee, same as she did us?"
anxiously inquired the fat lady from her lookout.

Mary hadn’t noticed.

"He’s drinking something out of a brown bottle—seems to relish it a heep
more’n he would cold coffee," reported the watch. "Hi there! Hi! Mr.
Chugg!" The stage-driver, thinking it was merely a request to be allowed
to walk, continued to drive with one hand and hold the brown bottle with