The big bays swung to the brow of the hill with ease, and dashed
into a small circular clearing, where a quaint little two-story
building, with a mossy watering-trough out in front, nestled under
the shade of majestic old trees that reared their brown and scarlet
crowns proudly into the sky. A long, low porch ran across the front
of the structure, and a complaining sign hung out announcing, in
dim, weather-flecked letters on a cracked board, that this was the
“Tutt House.” A gray-headed man, in brown overalls and faded blue
jumper, stood on the porch and shook his fist at the stage as it
whirled by.
“What a delightfully old-fashioned inn!” exclaimed the pretty
daughter. “How I should like to stop there over night!”
“You would probably wish yourself away before morning, Evelyn,”
replied her mother indifferently. “No doubt it would be a mere
siege of discomfort.”
The blonde matron turned to her husband. The pretty daughter had
been looking at the picturesque “inn” between the heads of this
lady and her son.
“Edward, please pull down the shade behind me,” she directed.
“There is quite a draught from that broken window.”
The pretty daughter bit her lip. The brunette matron continued to
stare at the shade in the exact spot upon which her gaze had been
before directed, and she never quivered an eyelash. The young man
seemed very uncomfortable, and he tried to look his apologies to
the pretty daughter, but she could not see him now, not even if her
eyes had been all corners.
They were bowling along through another avenue of trees when the
driver suddenly shouted, “Whoa there!”
The horses were brought up with a jerk that was well nigh fatal to
the assortment of dignity inside the coach. A loud roaring could
be heard, both ahead and in the rear, a sharp splitting like a
fusillade of pistol shots, then a creaking and tearing of timbers.
The driver bent suddenly forward.
“Gid ap!” he cried, and the horses sprang forward with a lurch.
He swung them around a sharp bend with a skillful hand and poised
his weight above the brake as they plunged at terrific speed down
a steep grade. The roaring was louder than ever now, and it became
deafening as they suddenly emerged from the thick underbrush at the
bottom of the declivity.
“Caught, by gravy!” ejaculated the driver, and, for the second
time, he brought the coach to an abrupt stop.
“Do see what is the matter, Ralph,” said the blonde matron
impatiently.
Thus commanded, the young man swung out and asked the driver about
it.
“Paintsville dam’s busted,” he was informed. “I been a-lookin’ fer
it this many a year, an’ this here freshet done it. You see the
holler there? Well, they’s ten foot o’ water in it, an’ it had ort
to be stone dry. The bridge is tore out behind us, an’ we’re stuck
here till that water runs out. We can’t git away till to-morry,
anyways.”
He pointed out the peculiar topography of the place, and Ralph got
back in the coach.
“We’re practically on a flood-made island,” he exclaimed, with one
eye on the pretty daughter, “and we shall have to stop over night
at that quaint, old-fashioned inn we passed a few moments ago.”
The pretty daughter’s eyes twinkled, and he thought he caught a
swift, direct gleam from under the long lashes—but he was not sure.
“Dear me, how annoying,” said the blonde matron, but the brunette
matron still stared, without the slightest trace of interest in
anything else, at the infinitesimal spot she had selected on the
affronting window-shade.
The two men gave sighs of resignation, and cast carefully concealed
glances at each other, speculating on the possibility of a cigar
and a glass, and maybe a good story or two, or possibly even a game
of poker after the evening meal. Who could tell what might or might
not happen?