him. He thought, in sudden approbation of a part,
at least, of the past, that he could drive a stage better
than any other man in a hundred, in a thousand;
there, at least, no humiliating failure had overtaken
his prowess with whip and reins. The old occupation,
the monotonous, restful miles of road sweeping
back under the wheels, the pleasant, casual detachment
of the passengers, the pride of accomplishment,
irresistibly appealed to him.

Valentine Simmons' rheumy eyes interrogated him
doubtfully above the fixed, dry color of his fallen
cheeks.

"By God, Valentine!" Gordon exclaimed, "I'll
do it, I'll drive her, and right, too. It takes experience
to carry a stage fifty miles over these mountains,
day and day; it takes a man that knows his horses,
when to slack up on 'em and when to swing the
leather... I'm ready any time you say."

"The stage goes out from Greenstream tomorrow;
you can take it the trip after. Money same
as before. And, Gordon, -- he-he! -- don't you
go and lend it out at four per cent; fifty's talking
but seventy's good. Pompey knew the trick, he'd
have dressed you down to an undershirt, Pompey
would."

Gordon returned slowly, absorbed in new considerations,
to his dwelling. It was obvious that he
could not live there alone and drive the Stenton

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v?