The old stage-coach that left Belmar one morning in autumn was along at a merry rate, for the road was good, the grade slightly down-hill, and the September afternoon that was drawing to a close cool and .
The day dawned bright and sunshiny, but the sky had become , and Bill Lenman, who had driven the stage for twenty-odd years, declared that a storm was , and was sure to overtake him before he could reach the little country town of Piketon, 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 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 of countrymen that ever passed beyond sight of his parent’s home. He was 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 , 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 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 , “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,” 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 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 , and were returning, without having met with much success.
The young men had hardly taken their seats in the stage when Wagstaff produced a and invited the driver and Ethan Durrell to join him and his friend. The invitation being declined, McGovern drew a package of cigarettes, and he and Tom soon filled the interior of the coach with the 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.
“Are you going to Piketon?” asked Ethan, when the young men were fairly seated in the stage.
“That’s the town we started for,” replied Wagstaff.
“Ever been there before?”
“No; we’re on our way to visit our friend, Bob Budd; we live in New York, and Bob spent several weeks down there last spring, when we made his acquaintance. Bob is a mighty good fellow, and we promised to come out and spend our vacation with him, though it’s rather late in the season for a vacation. I say, driver, do you know Bob?”
“Oh! yes,” replied Lenman, looking back in the faces of the young men; “I’ve knowed him ever since he was a little chit; he lives with his Uncle Jim now—rich old chap—and lets Bob do just as he pleases ’bout everything.”
“That’s the right kind of uncle to have,” remarked Jim; “I wouldn’t mind owning one of them myself. Bob wrote us that he was going to camp out near a big mill-pond and some mountains; of course, driver, you know the place.”
“I was born and reared in this part of the country; I don’t know the exact spot where Bob means to make his camp, but I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy yourselves.”
“It won’t be our fault if we don’t,” said Tom, with a laugh; “that’s how we came to leave the governor, without asking permission or saying good-bye.”
“I hope you didn’t run away from home, boys,” said Ethan, in a grieved manner.
“No, we didn’t run away,” said Jim, “we walked.”
Ethan Durrell checked the he was about to utter, and the young men laughed.
“You’ll be sorry for it some day,” remarked the New Englander, “you may depend on that.”
“Did you ever try it?” asked Wagstaff.
“I did once, but I didn’t get fur; the old gentleman overtook me a half-mile down the road; he had a big hickory in one hand and with the other he grabbed me by the nape of the neck; well,” added the gentleman, with a sigh, “I guess there’s no need of saying anything more.”
“He must have had a father like Billy Waylett,” remarked Jim, aside to his companion, both of whom laughed at the story of their new friend, “he wasn’t as lucky as we.”
The reader has already learned considerable about these two young men. They were wayward, disobedient, and fond of forbidden pleasures. It was the intention of their parents to place them in school that autumn, but while arrangements were under way the couple stealthily left home, first providing themselves with fine hunting , and started for Piketon, with the intention of spending a couple of weeks in the woods.
They did not not make their plans known to Billy Waylett, who was such a willing companion several years before. Billy still lived in Ashton and could have been easily reached, but they knew that he would not only reject their proposal, but, as likely as not, acquaint their parents with it.
The unwise indulgence of Mr. Wagstaff and Mr. McGovern was producing its fruit. They had had much trouble with their boys, but hoped as they grew older, and finished sowing their wild oats, they would settle down into , studious men, and that the end of all their parents’ worriment would soon come.
Among the acquaintances made by Jim and Tom was Bob Budd, who, as they intimated, spent several weeks in the city of New York. He was a native of Piketon, which was becoming altogether too slow for him. He under the restraints of so small a country town, and wrote them glowing accounts of the good times they would have together in the camp in the woods. He urged them to come at once, now that the hunting season was at hand.
Tom and Jim were captivated by his radiant pictures, and to accept his invitation, whether their parents consented or not. The near approach of the time set for their entrance at the high school made the in that direction too distasteful to be faced.
While they were still hesitating, with vivid recollections of the failure of their earlier years, another letter came from Bob Budd. He told them he had not only selected the spot for their camp, but that the tent was up, and it was well stocked with of both a solid and liquid nature. He had painted a big sign, which was suspended to the ridge-pole and bore the legend,
“CAMP OF THE PIKETON .”
This was not only , but served as a warning to all trespassers.
“Everything is ready,” wrote Bob, “and every day’s delay is just so much taken from the sport and that await you. Come at once, boys, and you’ll never regret it.”