But when the stage came with the flashing sun the next morning, and
the irresistible clamor of life and action, the driver suddenly
laid his four spirited horses on their haunches before the quiet
spot. The express messenger clambered down from the box, and
approached what seemed to be a heap of cast-off clothes upon the
boulder.

"He don't seem to be drunk," he said, in reply to a querulous
interrogation from the passengers. "I can't make him out. His
eyes are open, but he cannot speak or move. Take a look at him,
Doc."

A rough unprofessional-looking man here descended from the inside
of the coach, and, carelessly thrusting aside the other curious
passengers, suddenly leant over the heap of clothes in a
professional attitude.

"He is dead," said one of the passengers.

The rough man let the passive head sink softly down again. "No
such luck for him," he said curtly, but not unkindly. "It's a
stroke of paralysis--and about as big as they make 'em. It's a
toss-up if he ever speaks or moves again as long as he lives."


CHAPTER I


When Alvin Mulrady announced his intention of growing potatoes and
garden "truck" on the green slopes of Los Gatos, the mining