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He's all right, I said to myself, and Tom was horrid to call him a "chump." He beat himself off a bit, and went in and talked to the ticket-agent. They looked at their watches. "I don't think you'll have time to go uptown," said the ticket-man. Harshaw came out then, and he began to walk the platform, and to stare down the track toward Nampa; so I sat down.
Then the east-bound, shooting heavier clots of smoke laboriously into the air, drew its slow length out of Nampa, and away. "Where's that stage?" shrilled the woolly old man. "That's what I'm after." "Why, hello!" shouted Vogel. "Hello, Uncle Pasco! I heard you was dead." Uncle Pasco blinked his small eyes to see who hailed him. "Oh!" said he, in his light, crusty voice. "Dutchy Vogel.
Somebody might steal a horse." The boy closed one gray, confidential eye at his employer. "Just my idea," said he, "when I counted 'em before breakfast." "You liddle r-rascal," said Max, fondly, "What you shoot at?" Drake pointed at the demijohn. "It was bigger than those bottles at Nampa," said he. "Guess you could have hit it yourself." Max's great belly shook. He took in the situation.
He fired, and the glass splintered into shapelessness. "Told you I couldn't miss as close as you did," said he. "You are a darling," said Mr. Vogel. "Gif me dat lofely weapon." A fortunate store of bottles lay, leaned, or stood about in the white snow of Nampa, and Mr. Vogel began at them. "May I ask if anything is the matter?" inquired a mild voice from the stage.
"This is all my own doing," lamented the school-master. "What, the moon is?" "It has just come over me," Bolles continued. "It was before you got in the stage at Nampa. I was talking. I told Uncle Pasco that I was glad no whiskey was to be allowed on the ranch. It all comes from my folly!" "Why, you hungry old New England conscience!" cried the boy, clapping him on the shoulder.
"I hope he come back," said he. "I think he come back. If he come I r-raise him fifty dollars without any beard." The stage had not trundled so far on its Silver City road but that a whistle from Nampa station reached its three occupants. This was the branch train starting back to Boise with Max Vogel aboard; and the boy looked out at the locomotive with a sigh.
One day at Nampa, which is in Idaho, a ruddy old massive jovial man stood by the Silver City stage, patting his beard with his left hand, and with his right the shoulder of a boy who stood beside him. He had come with the boy on the branch train from Boise, because he was a careful German and liked to say everything twice twice at least when it was a matter of business.
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