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So he went and roused Files's hostler, bundled himself in the coat and the sleigh robes, and made a really joyous experience out of the trip to Levant, under the stars and over the snow that was crisped by the night's chill. He waited beside the station platform, standing up in the sleigh and peering eagerly after the train stopped. He called the name, "Mr.
He was not especially sanguine in regard to locating the missing convicts in that section, but he was obeying the warden's orders; after a day or so he was also obeying an impulse to satisfy his curiosity in lines quite apart from his official quest. He spent his nights at Files's tavern and grabbed his meals wherever he happened to be.
Britt hurried the rest of his movements; Files's kitchen conveniences were archaic, and the guest who was not on time got cold viands. The lover who had begun to stir Miss Harnden's thoughts into rather unpleasant roiliness of doubts came hustling into the bank, hat and coat on. The girl and young Vaniman were spreading their respective lunches on the center table inside the grille.
That was pretty blunt, and Mr. Bangs informed his helper that he, personally, had had about enough of the gummed-up, infernal town. He declared that he was going to leave. Mr. Bangs was more certain about his departure when he arrived back at Files's tavern that evening. Mr. Files informed him that there would be no more accommodations at the tavern after that night. Mr.
Tasper Britt rushed out from Files's tavern and stood on the porch. He had one of the papers in his hand. He ripped the paper to tatters and strewed about him the bits and stamped on the litter. He shrieked profanity. Then he leaped off the porch. In the tavern yard was "Gid-dap" Jones's stage pung. Britt yanked the big whip from its socket and bounced across the street, untangling the lash.
Britt came to him: he grimly weighed the idea of telling her that Files's boiled dinner was the cause of his breakdown. However, in his weakness, his love flamed more hotly than ever before. "Vona, I'm so lonesome!" he gulped. Miss Harnden had entered behind her shield, nerved like a battling Amazon.
It was a heavy dawn, next day; a thaw had set in and a drizzle of rain softened the snow; gray clouds trailed their draperies across the top of Burkett Hill. Landlord Files had trouble in getting his kitchen fire started in the sluggish air the draught was bad. Mr. Files's spirits were as heavy as the air.
Go rout up Files's hostler, borrow his fur coat, and bundle up warm. It's good slipping along the road, and the trip may have a little pep for you, after all." And, putting away his momentary doubts, Frank reflected on the matter and was honestly glad to vary the monotony of his close confinement to the bank.
It was something like Files's dinner gong, whose summons Mr. Britt was wont to obey on the instant. Mr. Britt was certain that it was not the gong; however, he glanced up at the clock on the wall, then he leaped out of his chair. In his amazement he rapped out, "Well, I'll be " That clock was reliable; it marked the hour of twelve. Mr.
He felt no pique; he had enjoyed the outing in the sparkling night. In the gray dawn he again routed out Files's yawning hostler and turned the equipage over to him. "Hope you found it a starry night for a ramble," suggested the hostler, willing to be informed as to why a bank cashier had been gallivanting around over the country between days, turning in a sweating horse at break of dawn.
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