They shuddered, though they were hardened young men, so unfeeling, even
after this reprimand, that they would have left the corpse of their
companion to go unhonored to its grave; separately they wished to do
so--in community they were ashamed; and Pisgah had half a hope that
somebody would demur when he said, awkwardly:
"The Colony must attend the funeral, I suppose. God knows which of us
will take the next turn."
Freckle cried out, however, that he should go, if he were to be buried
alive in the same tomb, and on this occasion only he appeared in the
light of an influential spirit.
IV.
THE DESPERATE CHANCE.
During all this time Mr. Auburn Risque, packed away in the omnibus
train, with a cheap cigar between his lips, and a face like a
refrigerator, was scudding over the rolling provinces of France,
thinking as little of the sunshine, and the harvesters of flax, and the
turning leaves of the woods, and the chateaux overawing the thatched
little villages, as if the train were his mail-coach, and France were
Arkansas, and he were lashing the rump of the "off" horse, as he had
done for the better part of his life.
Risque's uncle had been a great Mississippi jobber; he took U. S. postal
contracts for all the unknown world; route of the first class, six
horses and daily; route of the second class, semi-weekly and four
horses; third class, two horses and weekly; fourth class, one horse, one
saddle, and one small boy.
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