told him to take something, so he took the express-box."

The cultus of the stage-coachman always flourishes highest where
there are thieves on the road, and where the guard travels armed,
and the stage is not only a link between country and city, and the
vehicle of news, but has a faint warfaring aroma, like a man who
should be brother to a soldier. California boasts her famous
stage-drivers, and among the famous Foss is not forgotten. Along
the unfenced, abominable mountain roads, he launches his team with
small regard to human life or the doctrine of probabilities.
Flinching travellers, who behold themselves coasting eternity at
every corner, look with natural admiration at their driver's huge,
impassive, fleshy countenance. He has the very face for the driver
in Sam Weller's anecdote, who upset the election party at the
required point. Wonderful tales are current of his readiness and
skill. One in particular, of how one of his horses fell at a
ticklish passage of the road, and how Foss let slip the reins, and,
driving over the fallen animal, arrived at the next stage with only
three. This I relate as I heard it, without guarantee.

I only saw Foss once, though, strange as it may sound, I have twice
talked with him. He lives out of Calistoga, at a ranche called
Fossville. One evening, after he was long gone home, I dropped
into Cheeseborough's, and was asked if I should like to speak with
Mr. Foss. Supposing that the interview was impossible, and that I
was merely called upon to subscribe the general sentiment, I boldly
answered "Yes." Next moment, I had one instrument at my ear,
another at my mouth and found myself, with nothing in the world to
say, conversing with a man several miles off among desolate hills.
Foss rapidly and somewhat plaintively brought the conversation to