The citizens of Placerville prepared to fete the great journalist, and an extra coach with extra relays of horses was chartered of the California Stage Company to carry him from Folsom to Placerville—­distance, forty miles.  The extra was in some way delayed, and did not leave Folsom until late in the afternoon.  Mr. Greeley was to be feted at seven o’clock that evening by the citizens of Placerville, and it was altogether necessary that he should be there by that time.  So the Stage Company said to Henry Monk, the driver of the extra, “Henry, this great man must be there by seven to-night.”  And Henry answered, “The great man shall be there.”

The roads were in an awful state, and during the first few miles out of Folsom slow progress was made.

“Sir,” said Mr. Greeley, “are you aware that I must be in Placerville at seven o’clock to-night?”

“I’ve got my orders!” laconically replied Henry Monk.

Still the coach dragged slowly forward.

“Sir,” said Mr. Greeley, “this is not a trifling matter.  I must be there at seven!”

Again came the answer, “I’ve got my orders!”

But the speed was not increased, and Mr. Greeley chafed away another half-hour; when, as he was again about to remonstrate with the driver, the horses suddenly started into a furious run, and all sorts of encouraging yells filled the air from the throat of Henry Monk.

“That is right, my good fellow,” said Mr. Greeley.  “I’ll give you ten dollars when we get to Placerville.  Now we are going!”

They were indeed, and at a terrible speed.

Crack, crack! went the whip, and again “that voice” split the air, “Get up!  Hi-yi!  G’long!  Yip-yip.”

And on they tore over stones and ruts, up hill and down, at a rate of speed never before achieved by stage horses.

Mr. Greeley, who had been bouncing from one end of the stage to the other like an India-rubber ball, managed to get his head out of the window, when he said:—­

“Do-on’t-on’t-on’t you-u-u think we-e-e-e shall get there by seven if we do-on’t-on’t go so fast?”

“I’ve got my orders!” That was all Henry Monk said.  And on tore the coach.

It was becoming serious.  Already the journalist was extremely sore from the terrible jolting—­and again his head “might have been seen from the window.”

“Sir,” he said, “I don’t care-care-air if we don’t get there at seven.”

“I’ve got my orders!” Fresh horses—­forward again, faster than before—­over rocks and stumps, on one of which the coach narrowly escaped turning a summerset.

“See here!” shrieked Mr. Greeley, “I don’t care if we don’t get there at all.”

“I’ve got my orders!  I work fer the California Stage Company, I do.  That’s wot I work fer.  They said, ‘Get this man through by seving.’  An’ this man’s goin’ through, you bet!  Gerlong!  Whoo-ep!”

Another frightful jolt, and Mr. Greeley’s bald head suddenly found its way through the roof of the coach, amidst the crash of small timbers and the ripping of strong canvas.