was skilful, and fifteen seconds of whip and presence of mind brought it
out smoothly. Then the cause of all this spoke to them from a gate.

"Come as near spillin' as you boys wanted, I guess," remarked the cause.

They looked, and saw him in huge white shirt-sleeves, shaking with
joviality. "If you kep' at it long enough you might a-most learn to
drive a horse," he continued, eying Bertie. This came as near direct
praise as the true son of our soil--Northern or Southern--often thinks
well of. Bertie was pleased, but made a modest observation, and "Are we
near the tavern?" he asked. "Bird-in-Hand!" the son of the soil echoed;
and he contemplated them from his gate. That's me," he stated, with
complacence. "Bill Diggs of the Bird-in-Hand has been me since April,
'65." His massy hair had been yellow, his broad body must have weighed
two hundred and fifty pounds, his face was canny, red, and somewhat
clerical, resembling Henry Ward Beecher's.

"Trout," he said, pointing to a basket by the gate. "For your dinner.
"Then he climbed heavily but skilfully down and picked up the basket and
a rod. "Folks round here say," said he, "that there ain't no more trout
up them meadows. They've been a-sayin' that since '74; and I've been
a-sayin' it myself, when judicious." Here he shook slightly and opened
the basket. "Twelve," he said. "Sixteen yesterday. Now you go along
and turn in the first right-hand turn, and I'll be up with you soon.
Maybe you might make room for the trout." Room for him as well, they
assured him; they were in luck to find him, they explained. "Well, I
guess I'll trust my neck with you," he said to Bertie, the skillful
driver; "'tain't five minutes' risk." The buggy leaned, and its springs
bent as he climbed in, wedging his mature bulk between their slim
shapes. The gelding looked round the shaft at them. "Protestin', are