He then endeavored to stop the horses by gathering the reins together, and pulling upon them with all his strength; but it was in vain.  The horses had by this time reached a part of the road where it was more level, and they began to press forward at a more rapid pace.  Marco thought of calling to Forester to get out of the window and climb along the side of the coach to the box, in order to help him; but just at that moment he saw that they were coming up opposite to the farm house, which had been in sight, at a distance, when they were crossing the bridge.  So he thought that though he could not stop the horses, he might perhaps have strength enough to turn them off from the road into the farmer’s yard; and that then they could be more easily stopped.  In this he succeeded.  By pulling the off rein of the leaders with all his strength, he was able to turn them out of the road.  The pole horses followed as a matter of course,—­the coach came up with a graceful sweep to the farmer’s door, and then the horses were easily stopped.  The farmer came at once to the door, to see what strange company had come to visit him in the stage,—­his wife following; while several children crowded to the windows.

“What’s here?” said a voice from the window of the coach,—­“a post-office?” They thought the stage had been driven up to the door of some post-office.

Marco did not answer; in fact he was bewildered and confounded at the strangeness of his situation.  He looked back over the top of the coach down the road to see what had become of the driver.  To his great joy, he saw him running up behind the coach,—­his hat crushed out of shape, and his clothes dusty.  The passengers looked out at the windows of the stage, exclaiming,

“Why, driver! what’s the matter?”

The driver made no reply.  He began to brush his clothes,—­and, taking off his hat, he attempted to round it out into shape again.

“What is the matter, driver?” said the passengers.

“Nothing,” replied he, “only that drunkard of a sailor tumbled off the stage.”

“Where?” “When?” exclaimed half a dozen voices.  “Is he killed?”

“Killed? no,” replied the driver; “I don’t believe he is even sobered.”

Forester and another gentleman then urgently asked where he was, and the driver told them that he was “back there a piece,” as he expressed it.

“What! lying in the road?” said Forester; “open the door, and let us go and see to him.”

“No,” said the driver; “he has got off to the side of the road, safe.  I don’t believe he’s hurt any.  Let him take care of himself, and we’ll drive on.”

But Forester remonstrated strongly against leaving the poor sailor in such a condition, and in such a place; and finally it was agreed that the farmer should go down the road and see to him, so as to allow the stage-coach with the passengers to go on.

Forester was not willing, however, to have Marco ride outside any longer; and so they contrived to make room for him within.  As Marco descended from his high seat, the driver said to him, as he passed him, in a low voice,