The Campers Out: or, The Right Path and the Wrong. Ellis Edward Sylvester

which was the terminus of his journey.

      A railway line had been opened from this bright, wide-awake place, and, though the only public means of conveyance between Piketon and Belmar was the stage, its days were almost numbered, for the line was branching and spreading in nearly every direction.

      Bill had picked up and set down passengers, on the long run, until now, as the day was closing, he had but a single companion, who sat on the seat directly behind him, and kept up a continuous run of questions and answers.

      This gentleman’s appearance suggested one of the most verdant of countrymen that ever passed beyond sight of his parent’s home. He was fully six feet tall, with bright, twinkling-gray eyes, a long peaked nose, home-made clothing, and an honest, out-spoken manner which could not fail to command confidence anywhere.

      He had made known his name to every person that had ridden five minutes in the coach, as Ethan Durrell, born in New England, and on a tour of pleasure. He had never before been far from the old homestead, but had worked hard all his life, and had some money saved up, and his parents consented to let him enjoy his vacation in his own way.

      “You see, I could have got to Piketon by the railroad,” he said, leaning forward over the back of Lenman’s seat and peering good-naturedly into his face, “but consarn the railroads! I don’t think they ever oughter been allowed. I read in the Weekly Bugle, just afore I left home, that somewhere out West a cow got on the track and wouldn’t get off! No, sir, wouldn’t get off, till the engine run into her and throwed her off the track, and likewise throwed itself off, and some of the folks on board come mighty nigh getting hurt.”

      The driver was naturally prejudiced against railways, and was glad to agree with Ethan’s sentiments.

      “Yas,” he said, as he nipped a fly off the ear of the near horse, by a swing of his long lash, “there ought to be a law agin them railroads; what’s the use of folks being in such a hurry, that they want to ride a mile a minute! What good does it do ’em? Why aint they content to set in a coach like this and admire the country as they ride through it?”

      “Them’s been my sentiments ever since I knowed anything,” replied the New Englander, with enthusiasm, “but it looks as everbody is fools except us, Bill, eh?” laughed Ethan, reaching over and chucking the driver in the side; “leastways, as we can’t bender ’em from doing as they please, why, we won’t try.”

      “I guess you’re ’bout right,” growled Bill, who could not see the stage-coach approaching its last run without a feeling of dissatisfaction, if not sadness.

      “Helloa!” exclaimed Ethan, in a low voice, “I guess you’re going to have a couple more passengers.”

      “It looks that way; yes, they want to ride.”

      The coach had reached the bottom of the hill, and was rumbling toward the small, wooden bridge, beyond which the woods stretched on both sides of the highway, when two large boys climbed over the fence and, walking to the side of the road, indicated that they wished to take passage in the coach.

      These young men were our old friends, Tom Wagstaff and Jim McGovern, and they were dressed in sporting costume, each carrying a fine rifle, revolver, and hunting-knife. Although they had not yet executed their plan of a campaign against the aborigines of the West, they were on a hunting jaunt, and were returning, without having met with much success.

      The young men had hardly taken their seats in the stage when Wagstaff produced a flask and invited the driver and Ethan Durrell to join him and his friend. The invitation being declined, McGovern drew forth a package of cigarettes, and he and Tom soon filled the interior of the coach with the nauseating odor. But for the thorough ventilation, Ethan declared he would have been made ill.

      Tom and Jim were not long in finding a subject for amusement in the person of the New Englander. He was as eager as they to talk, and Bill, sitting in front with the lines in hand, turned sideway and grinned as he strove not to lose a word of the conversation.