A LOVE-LETTER FOR THE PROFESSOR. 379 



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jumped up by the "boot," and grasping the old fel- 

 low's hand, introduced myself. Old Bob rubbed his 

 eyes, which were weak and watery, and scanned me 

 closely. 



"Well, well, lad," he said, "your face takes me 

 now, sure enough. I mind your father and mother 

 well, and you're the little rascal that stole my whip 

 once, when I was thawing out with Jamaica and 

 ginger. Did you tell me by the old tune ? You did, 

 eh? Well, truth is, lad, the horn won't blow any 

 other. It's got to running in that groove, and when 

 I try to coax any thing new out, it sets off so that 

 it frightens the horses." 



The coach was now ready for starting, and, as he 

 gathered up the reins, my friend of auld lang syne 

 called out to me, " When you get back to York State, 

 if you see any Rouse's Point people that ask for 

 Old Bob, tell them he does n't take any Jamaica and 

 ginger now. Tell them he 's out on the plains, tryin' 

 to get back some of the life the cussed stuff burnt 

 out of him." And away the stage coach rattled, and 

 soon was out of hearing. 



Next day's down stage brought intelligence that 

 Bob's coach had been attacked by Indians, but the 

 old fellow had handled his lines right skillfully, and 

 brought mails and passengers through in safety. 



Our last day at Sheridan, for the Professor, was 

 marked by two important events, namely : a commu- 

 nication from the living present, and another from the 

 dead past. The first came, as the postmark showed, 

 by way of Lindsey, on the Solomon river. The Pro- 

 fessor said it was simply an answer to some scientific 



