The
coach had stopped. The voices of men, one in entreaty, one in
expostulation, came from the box. Cass mechanically put his hand to his
pistol pocket.
"Thank you, but I _insist_ upon getting down."
It was Miss Porter's voice. This was followed by a rapid, half
restrained interchange of words between Hornsby and the driver. Then
the latter said gruffly:
"If the lady wants to ride inside, let her."
Miss Porter fluttered to the ground. She was followed by Hornsby. "Just
a minit, Miss," he expostulated, half shamedly, half brusquely, "ye
don't onderstand me. I only"--
But Miss Porter had jumped into the coach.
Hornsby placed his hand on the handle of the door. Miss Porter grasped
it firmly from the inside. There was a slight struggle.
All of which was part of a dream to the boyish Cass. But he awoke from
it--a man! "Do you," he asked, in a voice he scarcely recognized
himself,--"do you want this man inside?"
"No!"
Cass caught at Hornsby's wrist like a young tiger. But alas! what
availed instinctive chivalry against main strength? He only succeeded
in forcing the door open in spite of Miss Porter's superior strategy,
and--I fear I must add, muscle also--and threw himself passionately at
Hornsby's throat, where he hung on and calmly awaited dissolution.
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