As for Abe himself, he looked round him in the most staid and sober manner, and then, after demanding for a second time his nonsuit, as he termed it, took his seat; and the justice, looking dark in the face with his efforts to conceal his laughter, dismissed the suit. “I want a warrant for the costs, ef they aint paid on the spot,” says Abe. “I’m ready to swear, your honor—” “Pay him the costs and be hanged to him,” ejaculated Kellogg to his client. “He’s ready to swear to any thing.” And Nirum, with a sigh takes out his leathern pouch and defrays the costs to the justice. Kellogg then takes his hat and sneaks over to his office. Nirum hobbles to his shop—the justice closes his office door, the boys melt away, and the farce is over. Twelve o’clock! time for the stage—so I’ll take a look at the hill. Sure enough, there is a pyramid of dust shooting up from its summit, and, in the midst, gleams out the crimson coach like a boiled lobster from the gray mist of its pot. Down the hill whirls the dust, and soon we’ll see the machine upon the flat. Ah! here it is, spinning along at a great rate. Past Griffin’s black domicile—past the beautiful meadow on the right—past the rich wheat-field on the left—past the smooth lawny hill, with its birchen grove on its top—past Uncle Jack’s—past the “ridge farm road,” and now it is creeping up the hill by Owlet’s blacksmith shop. Ah! here comes the ears of the leaders above the brow of the hill—then the heads tossing up and down with their efforts—then the bodies, reined and strapped—then the wheelers—then the lower side of the slanting seat which forms the driver’s throne—then the driver himself, with his four reins slanting to the horses’ heads—then the whole red coach, creaking and pitching. At last the top of the hill is gained, and, with a loud crack of the driver’s whip, through the village trot the jaded steeds. The coach looks like a bobbed rooster with his tail down, for the dusty boot protrudes immensely at the rear, and all the weight appears to be on the hind seat. Up rolls the coach, the driver making his whip crack like Fanny Ellsler’s castanets in the “cracovienne,” and with a prodigious attempt at creating a sensation—the machine stops at Hamble’s. Here the passengers, in the shape of a fat old lady, a lean old gentleman, and a cross baby between them, empty themselves on Hamble’s porch, and the driver, with a loud “keh!” and an awful crack of his whip, gallops over to the post-office.