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“Is–is–this gentleman who is to assist me–a–a mature professional man–or a–graduate?” hesitated Mrs. Martin, with a faint smile.

“Don’t really know–I reckon Sam–Mr. Barstow–fixed that all right. Must really go now;” and, still holding his hat in his hand as a polite compromise for his undignified haste, he fairly ran off.

Arrived at the stage office, he found the two other trustees awaiting him, and the still more tardy stage-coach. One, a large, smooth-faced, portly man, was the Presbyterian minister; the other, of thinner and more serious aspect, was a large mill-owner.

“I presume,” said the Rev. Mr. Peaseley, slowly, “that as our good brother Barstow, in the urgency of the occasion, has, to some extent, anticipated OUR functions in engaging this assistant, he is–a–a–satisfied with his capacity?”

“Sam knows what he’s about,” said the mill-owner cheerfully, “and as he’s regularly buckled down to the work here, and will go his bottom dollar on it, you can safely leave things to him.”

“He certainly has exhibited great zeal,” said the reverend gentleman patronizingly.

“Zeal,” echoed Sperry enthusiastically, “zeal? Why, he runs Pine Clearing as he runs his bank and his express company in Sacramento, and he’s as well posted as if he were here all the time. Why, look here;” he nudged the mill-owner secretly, and, as the minister’s back was momentarily turned, pulled out the letter he had avoided reading to Mrs. Martin, and pointed to a paragraph. “I’ll be d—-d,” said the writer, “but I’ll have peace and quietness at Pine Clearing, if I have to wipe out or make over the whole Pike County gang. Draw on me for a piano if you think Mrs. Martin can work it. But don’t say anything to Peaseley first, or he’ll want it changed for a harmonium, and that lets us in for psalm-singing till you can’t rest. Mind! I don’t object to Church influence–it’s a good hold!–but you must run IT with other things equal, and not let it run YOU. I’ve got the schoolhouse insured for thirty thousand dollars–special rates too.”

The mill-owner smiled. “Sam’s head is level! But,” he added, “he don’t say much about the new assistant he’s sending.”

“Only here,” he says, “I reckon the man I send will do all round; for Pike County has its claims as well as Boston.”

“What does that mean?” asked the mill-owner.

“I reckon he means he don’t want Pine Clearing to get too high-toned any more than he wants it too low down. He’s mighty square in his averages–is Sam.”

Here speculation was stopped by the rapid oncoming of the stage-coach in all the impotent fury of a belated arrival. “Had to go round by Montezuma to let off Jack Hill,” curtly explained the driver, as he swung himself from the box, and entered the hotel bar-room in company with the new expressman, who had evidently taken Hill’s place on the box-seat. Autocratically indifferent to further inquiry, he called out cheerfully: “Come along, boys, and hear this yer last new yarn about Sam Barstow,–it’s the biggest thing out.” And in another moment the waiting crowd, with glasses in their hands, were eagerly listening to the repetition of the “yarn” from the new expressman, to the apparent exclusion of other matters, mundane and practical.

Thus debarred from information, the three trustees could only watch the passengers as they descended, and try to identify their expected stranger. But in vain: the bulk of the passengers they already knew, the others were ordinary miners and laborers; there was no indication of the new assistant among them. Pending further inquiry they were obliged to wait the conclusion of the expressman’s humorous recital. This was evidently a performance of some artistic merit, depending upon a capital imitation of an Irishman, a German Jew, and another voice, which was universally recognized and applauded as being “Sam’s style all over!” But for the presence of the minister, Sperry and the mill-owner would have joined the enthusiastic auditors, and inwardly regretted the respectable obligations of their official position.