Bill laid both his powerful hands on Jeff's shoulders, backed him
against the wall, and surveyed him with great gravity.

"Briggs's son clar through! A little off color, but the grit all thar!
Bully for you, Jeff." He wrung Jeff's hand between his own.

"Bill!" said Jeff hesitatingly.

"Jeff!"

"You wouldn't mind my getting up on the box NOW, before all the folks
get round?"

"I reckon not. Thar's the box-seat all ready for ye."

Climbing to his high perch, Jeff, indistinguishable in the darkness,
looked out upon the porch and the moving figures of the passengers, on
Bill growling out his orders to his active hostler, and on the twinkling
lights of the hotel windows. In the mystery of the night and the
bitterness of his heart, everything looked strange. There was a light in
Miss Mayfield's room, but the curtains were drawn. Once he thought they
moved, but then, fearful of the fascination of watching them, he turned
his face resolutely away.

Then, to his relief, the hour came; the passengers re-entered the coach;
Bill had mounted the box, and was slowly gathering his reins, when a
shrill voice rose from the porch.

"Oh, Jeff!"