The night had evidently grown colder. The landlord had felt it, for he had put on his coat; so had a man with a dyed mustache and heavy red face, whom I had left tipped back against the wall, and who was now raking out the ashes with a poker. So had the butternut man, who had moved two diameters nearer the centre of comfort. All doubts, however, were dispelled by the arrival of a thickset man with ruddy cheeks, who slammed the door behind him and moved quickly toward the stove, shedding the snow from his high boots as he walked. He nodded to the landlord and spread his stiff fingers to the red glow. A faint wreath of white steam arose from his coonskin overcoat, filling the room with the odor of wet horse blankets and burned leather. The landlord left the desk, where he had been figuring with the clerk, approached my chair, and pointing to the new arrival, said:-- "This is the driver I been expectin' over from Hell's Diggings. He'll take you. This man"--he now pointed to me--"wants to go to the college at 7.30." The new arrival shifted his whip to the other hand, looked me all over, his keen and penetrating eye resting for an instant on my white shirt and waistcoat, and answered slowly, still looking at me, but addressing the landlord:-- "He'll have to get somebody else. I got to take Dick Sands over to Millwood Station; his mother's took bad again." "What, Dick Sands?" came a voice from the other side of the stove. It was the man in the butternut suit. "Why, Dick Sands," replied the driver in a positive tone. "Not _Dick Sands_?" The voice expressed not only surprise but incredulity. "Yes, DICK SANDS," shouted the driver in a tone that carried with it his instant intention of breaking anybody's head who doubted the statement. "Gosh! that so? When did he git out?" cried the butternut man. "Oh, a month back. He's been up in Hell's Diggin's ever since." Then finding that no one impugned his veracity, he added in a milder tone: "His old mother's awful sick up to her sister's back of Millwood. He got word a while ago." "Well, this gentleman's got to speak at the college, and our team won't be back in time." The landlord pronounced the word "gentleman" with emphasis. The white waistcoat had evidently gotten in its fine work. "Let Dick walk," broke in the clerk. "He's used to it, and used to runnin', too"--this last with a dry laugh in spite of an angry glance from his employer. "Well, Dick won't walk," snapped the driver, his voice rising. "He'll ride like a white man, he will, and that's all there is to it. His leg's bad ag'in." These remarks were not aimed at me nor at the room. They were fired pointblank at the clerk. I kept silent; so did the clerk. "What time was you goin' to take Dick?" inquired the landlord in a conciliatory tone. "'Bout 7.20--time to catch the 8.10."