“So you can, Dean. And if the stage has got started you must take a team. That will do it. Excuse me. This is Marcus Ellison, the son of Robert Ellison, whose papers I gave you. The boy is anxious about his father, so he has come to see me. Now you and he can go to Springfield together.” Marcus Ellison held out his hand, saying frankly: “I remember you, Mr. Mercer, if you do not me. I am the boy you saved from the pummelling of that wharf bully.” “I am glad to meet you again, and under more pleasant circumstances, Mr. Ellison.” “I told Marcus the papers were with you, and now I turn him over to your care.” “We will get to Springfield all right, Mr. Montague. I will now hand the papers and money over to him.” “You may keep them until we get to Springfield,” said Marcus, who was a frank, pleasant youth for whom Dean quickly conceived a strong liking. “I will see that you have them safely. But if Jack’s recovered his wind, we’ll start again for the stage.” “Heave ahead, ol’ lad--I mean admiral!” said Jack Carboy, bowing and scraping in true nautical politeness to his companions. “This ol’ craft’s got its bearings ag’in; square the yards for a fresh breeze.” Dean, hastily bidding adieu to Mr. Montague, resumed his way, Marcus keeping close beside him, while old Jack did his level best to keep along. The Landlock stage left the stable of an old-time hostelry standing a little south of the main street running away from the shore, and thither Dean hastened. “There’s the stage just starting!” he cried. Marcus Ellison saw a lumbering vehicle drawn by a pair of horses coming out of the yard in front of the dilapidated old stable. “Here, driver! hold up a moment,” shouted Dean. The grizzled stage driver was in the act of taking his whip from its socket to swing the long lash in the air, as was his custom, winding up with a terrific cracking of the lash, for which he was famous, when Dean’s voice rang on his ears. The horses seemed to know as well as their master what was wanted, and they came to an immediate stop, while old Jim Dolittle looked askance upon the approaching trio. “We want passage to Landlock, Jim,” explained Dean. “The hull of you?” asked the driver, as he ran his eye over the approaching three. “Yes, Jim. You can take us?” “Not more’n one on ye. Stage full to running over now.” From a hasty survey Dean saw that he had four passengers, which left room for at least three more. “You surely can take us all, Jim? We must all go.” “Hang yer ‘musts’! I ain’t obleeged to take more passengers ’n I wanter.” “This is a public conveyance and you----” “Drat the public. I reckon I ain’t obleeged to over-load my hosses jess co’s’ there’s a public. Get up there, boys! Show a light heel, old Thunderbolt! Rattle yer hoofs, Spotted Dan!” Finding that the driver was not inclined to stop for him, Dean Mercer sprang nimbly upon the crossbar of the whiffle-tree, and the next moment took a seat beside Jim Dolittle, the old stager.