seat, the reins leading from his clenched fists through the slit in the
"boot" to the rings on the collar of General Jackson, the aged horse, he
expressed his opinion of the road, the night, and the job.

"By Judas priest!" declared Winnie S.--his name was Winfield Scott
Hancock Holt, but no resident of East Wellmouth called him anything but
Winnie S.--"by Judas priest! If this ain't enough to make a feller give
up tryin' to earn a livin', then I don't know! Tell him he can't ship
aboard a schooner 'cause goin' to sea's a dog's life, and then put him
on a job like this! Dog's life! Judas priest! What kind of a life's
THIS, I want to know?"

From the curtain depths of the depot-wagon behind him a voice answered,
a woman's voice:

"Judgin' by the amount of dampness in it I should think you might call
it a duck's life," it suggested.

Winnie S. accepted this pleasantry with a grunt. "I 'most wish I was
a duck," he declared, savagely. "Then I could set in three inches of
ice-water and like it, maybe. Now what's the matter with you?" This last
a roar to the horse, whose splashy progress along the gullied road had
suddenly ceased. "What's the matter with you now?" repeated Winnie.
"What have you done; come to anchor? Git dap!"

But General Jackson refused to "git dap." Jerks at the reins only caused
him to stamp and evince an inclination to turn around. Go ahead he would
not.

"Judas priest!" exclaimed the driver. "I do believe the critter's