fellows with idees, cartin ’em round to anniversaries and sich.  Ef you only wear a nice slick plug-hat there, you kin believe anything you choose or not, and be a gentleman all the same.  The more you believe or don’t believe in Bost’n, the more gentleman you be.  The don’t-believers is just as good as the believers.  Idees inside the head, and plug-hats outside.  But idees out here!  I tell you, here it’s nothin’ but per-cent.”  The Superior Being puckered his lips and whistled. “Git up, will you!  G’lang!  Better try Bost’n.”

Perhaps Albert Charlton, the student passenger, was a little offended with the liberty the driver had taken in rebuking his theories.  He was full of “idees,” and his fundamental idea was of course his belief in the equality and universal brotherhood of men.  In theory he recognized no social distinctions.  But the most democratic of democrats in theory is just a little bit of an aristocrat in feeling—­he doesn’t like to be patted on the back by the hostler; much less does he like to be reprimanded by a stage-driver.  And Charlton was all the more sensitive from a certain vague consciousness that he himself had let down the bars of his dignity by unfolding his theories so gushingly to Whisky Jim.  What did Jim know—­what could a man who said “idees” know—­about the great world-reforming thoughts that engaged his attention?  But when dignity is once fallen, all the king’s oxen and all the king’s men can’t stand it on its legs again.  In such a strait, one must flee from him who saw the fall.

Albert Charlton therefore determined that he would change to the inside of the coach when an opportunity should offer, and leave the Superior Being to sit “wrapped in the solitude of his own originality.”

CHAPTER II.

The sod tavern.

Here and there Charlton noticed the little claim-shanties, built in every sort of fashion, mere excuses for pre-emption.  Some were even constructed of brush.  What was lacking in the house was amply atoned for by the perjury of the claimant who, in pre-empting, would swear to any necessary number of good qualities in his habitation.  On a little knoll ahead of the stage he saw what seemed to be a heap of earth.  There must have been some inspiration in this mound, for, as soon as it came in sight, Whisky Jim began to chirrup and swear at his horses, and to crack his long whip threateningly until he had sent them off up the hill at a splendid pace.  Just by this mound of earth he reined up with an air that said the forenoon route was finished.  For this was nothing less than the “Sod Tavern,” a house built of cakes of the tenacious prairiesod.  No other material was used except the popple-poles, which served for supports to the sod-roof.  The tavern was not over ten feet high at the apex of the roof; it had been built for two or three years, and the grass was now growing on top.  A red-shirted publican sallied out of this artificial grotto, and invited the ladies and gentlemen to dinner.