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Mr.Greeley, who had been bouncing from one end of the coach to the other like an india-rubber ball, managed to get his head out of the window, when he said:

"Do--on't--on't--on't you-u-u think we-e-e-e shall get there by seven if we do--on't--on't go so fast?""I've got my orders!" That was all Henry Monk said.And on tore the coach.

It was becoming serious.Already the journalist was extremely sore from the terrible jolting, and again his head "might have been seen" at the window.

"Sir," he said, "I don't care--care--AIR, if we DON'T get there at seven!""I've got my orders!" Fresh horses.Forward again, faster than before.Over rocks and stumps, on one of which the coach narrowly escaped turning a summerset.

"See here!" shrieked Mr.Greeley, "I don't care if we don't get there at all!""I've got my orders! I work for the California Stage Company, _I_do.That's wot I WORK for.They said, 'git this man through by seving.' An' this man's goin' through.You bet! Gerlong! Whoo-ep!"

Another frightful jolt, and Mr.Greeley's bald head suddenly found its way through the roof of the coach, amidst the crash of small timbers and the ripping of strong canvas.

"Stop, you ---- maniac!" he roared.

Again answered Henry Monk:

"I've got my orders! KEEP YOUR SEAT, HORACE!"At Mud Springs, a village a few miles from Placerville, they met a large delegation of the citizens of Placerville, who had come out to meet the celebrated editor, and escort him into town.There was a military company, a brass band, and a six-horse wagon load of beautiful damsels in milk-white dresses representing all the States in the Union.It was nearly dark now, but the delegation were amply provided with torches, and bonfires blazed all along the road to Placerville.

The citizens met the coach in the outskirts of Mud Springs, and Mr.

Monk reined in his foam-covered steeds.

"Is Mr.Greeley on board?" asked the chairman of the committee.

"HE WAS, A FEW MILES BACK!" said Mr.Monk; "yes," he added, after looking down through the hole which the fearful jolting had made in the coach-roof--"yes, I can see him! He is there!""Mr.Greeley," said the Chairman of the Committee, presenting himself at the window of the coach, "Mr.Greeley, sir! We are come to most cordially welcome you, sir--why, God bless me, sir, you are bleeding at the nose!""I've got my orders!" cried Mr.Monk."My orders is as follers:

Get him there by seving! It wants a quarter to seving.Stand out of the way!""But, sir," exclaimed the Committee-man, seizing the off leader by the reins--"Mr Monk, we are come to escort him into town! Look at the procession, sir, and the brass bands, and the people, and the young women, sir!""I'VE GOT MY ORDERS!" screamed Mr.Monk."My orders don't say nothin' about no brass bands and young women.My orders says, 'git him there by seving!' Let go them lines! Clear the way there!

Whoo-ep! KEEP YOUR SEAT, HORACE!" and the coach dashed wildly through the procession, upsetting a portion of the brass band, and violently grazing the wagon which contained the beautiful young women in white.

Years hence, gray-haired men, who were little boys in this procession, will tell their grandchildren how this stage tore through Mud Springs, and how Horace Greeley's bald head ever and anon showed itself, like a wild apparition, above the coach-roof.

Mr.Monk was on time.There is a tradition that Mr.Greeley was very indignant for a while; then he laughed, and finally presented Mr.Monk with a brand new suit of clothes.

Mr.Monk himself is still in the employ of the California Stage Company, and is rather fond of relating a story that has made him famous all over the Pacific coast.But he says he yields to no man in his admiration for Horace Greeley.

4.8.TO REESE RIVER.

I leave Virginia for Great Salt Lake City, via the Reese River Silver Diggings.

There are eight passengers of us inside the coach--which, by the way, isn't a coach, but a Concord covered mud wagon.

Among the passengers is a genial man of the name of Ryder, who has achieved a widespread reputation as a strangler of unpleasant bears in the mountain fastnesses of California, and who is now an eminent Reese River miner.

We ride night and day, passing through the land of the Piute Indians.Reports reach us that fifteen hundred of these savages are on the Rampage, under the command of a red usurper named Buffalo Jim, who seems to be a sort of Jeff Davis, inasmuch as he and his followers have seceded from the regular Piut organization.

The seceding savages have announced that they shall kill and scalp all pale-faces [which makes our face pale, I reckon] found loose in that section.We find the guard doubled at all the stations where we change horses, and our passengers nervously examine their pistols and readjust the long glittering knives in their belts.Ifeel in my pockets to see if the key which unlocks the carpet-bag containing my revolvers is all right--for I had rather brilliantly locked my deadly weapons up in that article, which was strapped with the other baggage to the rack behind.The passengers frown on me for this carelessness, but the kind-hearted Ryder gives me a small double-barrelled gun, with which I narrowly escape murdering my beloved friend Hingston in cold blood.I am not used to guns and things, and in changing the position of this weapon I pulled the trigger rather harder than was necessary.

When this wicked rebellion first broke out I was among the first--to stay at home--chiefly because of my utter ignorance of firearms.

I should be valuable to the Army as a Brigadier-General only so far as the moral influence of--my name went.

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When this wicked rebellion first broke out I was among the first to stay at home -chiefly because of my utter ignorance of firearms.Ishould be valuable to the army as a Brigadier General only so far as the moral influence of my name went.

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