Colonel Wincott occupied the front seat with Mrs. Harnden.  By the time he had teamed the Squire’s fat little nag along for a mile he had succeeded in calming Mrs. Harnden’s hysterical spirits.  He induced her to quit looking over her shoulder at the great torch that lighted luridly the heavens above the deserted town.  “It’s a pillar of fire by night, madam, as you say!  But that’s as far as it fits in with the Exodus sentiment.  It’s behind us—­and behind us let it stay.”

At the end of another mile Mrs. Harnden was extolling the capability of her husband.

“I’ve heard about him,” said the colonel.  “Optimist?  So am I. Get in touch with him and tell him to come to my new town.  He’ll have something that he can really optimize over.”

Colonel Wincott sedulously kept his attention off the two who rode on the back seat; he obliged Mrs. Harnden to do the same.

After a time the trotting nag overtook the trailers of the procession.  The colonel hailed and passed one wain after another, steadily calling, “Gangway!” They recognized his authority; they obeyed; they gave him half the road.

He had an especially hearty greeting for the hand tub, Hecla, trundling on its little wheels, men guarding its flanks, men pulling on the rope by which it was propelled.  Ike Jones was one of the guards.  He gave the colonel’s party a return greeting by a flourish on the “tramboon.”

“The stage starts from your town this morning, Colonel!  Runs express through Egypt.”

“Good idea!  Nothing but scenery left there,” agreed the colonel.  “Take good care of that gold, boys!  The receiver of the Egypt Trust Company will be able to cut some melon!”

But Prof.  Almon Waite, toddling behind the treasure, had a metaphor of his own.  “This gold will gloriously pave the streets of the New Jerusalem, sir!”

They went on in the growing dawn, threading their way among the vehicles and the folks on foot.

In all their progress they met only one party headed in the opposite direction, coming back toward the town that had been deserted.  Vaniman beheld Bartley Wagg teaming along the two convicts.  They were tied together and he was threatening them with a club.  They merely flashed on the screen of the mist and were out of sight.  It was evident that Mr. Wagg had determined to grab a couple of straws, at any rate, in a desperate attempt to buoy himself officially in the flood of his misfortunes.

The sun was burning away the mists when Colonel Wincott’s turnout topped a hill; he waved his whip to invite the attention of his passengers.  “There she lies, folks!  I’ve been calling it my town.  From now on it’s our town.  Some daisy on the breast of nature, eh?”

There was a lake on the facets of whose ripples the sunlight danced.  White water tumbled down cascades.  Beside the lake there was a nest of portable houses.  “Homes till we build bigger ones,” explained the master of The Promised Land.  “I’m giving building lots free.  The class of settlers warrants it!”