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Updated: May 2, 2025
The stage-coach from Sacramento, entering the settlement by the mountain highway, its wheels and panels clogged and crusted with an unctuous pigment like mud and blood, passed out of it through the overflowed and dangerous ford, and emerged in spotless purity, leaving its stains behind with Rough and Ready.
Bob, his cheeks like winter apples, his boots crusted with snow, shouted at the company: "Oh, pull yourselves loose from this stuffy fire and come up on the hill. Mr. Ferry's toboggan goes like lightning express from the top of the hill clear down to the big elm in the middle of the south meadow. He's a dandy at it. I can't steer the thing yet, at all, but he'll teach me.
The night was keen and frosty, the cold, slaty sky was thickly studded with sparkling stars, the snow was crusted over it was a fine, fresh, clear, wintry night; at another time it would have invigorated and inspired him; now the air seemed stifling, the scene hateful.
"Every little while we sat down and pounded our feet with our walking sticks to keep up the circulation. At last we came to about two feet of a telephone pole sticking up through the snowbank. We knew then that we were off the road and were high up on the mountain. Luckily for us, the snowbanks were so heavily crusted that they held us up without breaking through.
I will not speak of the fine old crusted stories, ever the same, on which every drama is based, nor yet of the musty characters with which they are peopled the miser in the old castle counting his gold by night, the dishevelled woman whom he keeps for ambiguous reasons confined in a cellar. Let all this be waived. We must not quarrel with the ingredients.
A faint marshlight struggling upwards from all the ordure through the bristling grey-green weeds. An evil smell, faint and foul as the light, curled upwards sluggishly out of the canisters and from the stale crusted dung. Creatures were in the field: one, three, six: creatures were moving in the field, hither and thither.
'There's a specimen, I says to myself while you an' Purdy was gossipin' about the handkerchief, an' the dance, an' what a beautiful rider he was 'that's gone on gatherin' refinement 'til it's crusted onto him so thick it's probably struck through. But just as I was losin' interest in him, he slanted a glance at Purdy that made me look him over again.
A plate of deep-red apples on the table sent forth a homely fragrance, and they were almost as beautiful as a vase of roses would have been. Presently there was no mistake steps were approaching. The crusted snow gave way under the heavy tread, the steps of the little porch creaked under the weight of strong bodies. It was Gaston's voice that came first to Joyce. "It's too late, Jude. Past nine."
He is a burly rough, bearded to the eyes, the shapeless remnant of a coarse wide-awake covering a head of hair that has seemingly been long unknown to the barber; his blue flannel shirt, ragged jacket, breeches, and long riding-boots, are all crusted deep with mud, while a stock-whip is coiled round his shoulders.
Not that he regretted excess on such a glorious day, but he made a mental memorandum to beware; he must not, a second time, become the victim of a deleterious habit. He had his wine out of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial vessels, some on the white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still crusted with historic earth.
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