"Yes. Good-morning," said the driver of the rig, a clear-eyed,
wholesome-looking man of clerical appearance. "We had a little
accident. We've come from Bullionville. How long do you think it will
take you to put us in shape?"
The smith was looking at the children.
Such a trio of blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, unalarmed little girls had
never before been seen in Borealis; and they all looked back at him and
the others with the most engaging frankness.
"Well, about how far you goin'?" said the smith, by way of answer.
"To Fremont," replied the stranger. "I'm a preacher, but they thought
they couldn't support a church at Bullionville," he added, with a look,
half mirth, half worry, in his eyes. "However, a man from Fremont
loaned us the horses and carriage, so we thought we'd move before the
snow fell any deeper. I'd like to go on without great delay, if the
mending can be hastened."
"Your off horse needs shoein'," said Webber, quickly scanning every
detail of the animals and vehicle with his practised eye. "It's a long
pull to Fremont. I reckon you can't git started before the day after
tomorrow."
To a preacher who had found himself superfluous, the thought of the
bill of expenses that would heap up so swiftly here in Borealis was
distressing.
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