The farmer came at once to the door, to see what strange company had
come to visit him in the stage,--his wife following; while several
children crowded to the windows.
"What's here?" said a voice from the window of the coach,--"a
post-office?" They thought the stage had been driven up to the door of
some post-office.
Marco did not answer; in fact he was bewildered and confounded at the
strangeness of his situation. He looked back over the top of the coach
down the road to see what had become of the driver. To his great joy,
he saw him running up behind the coach,--his hat crushed out of shape,
and his clothes dusty. The passengers looked out at the windows of the
stage, exclaiming,
"Why, driver! what's the matter?"
The driver made no reply. He began to brush his clothes,--and, taking
off his hat, he attempted to round it out into shape again.
"What _is_ the matter, driver?" said the passengers.
"Nothing," replied he, "only that drunkard of a sailor tumbled off the
stage."
"Where?" "When?" exclaimed half a dozen voices. "Is he killed?"
"Killed? no," replied the driver; "I don't believe he is even
sobered."
Forester and another gentleman then urgently asked where he was, and
the driver told them that he was "back there a piece," as he expressed
it.
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