“Linny is a true friend,” he said.  “He is just as well off as Randolph, but never puts on airs.  He is as popular as Randolph is unpopular.  I wish I could go to Europe with him.”

Upon the earlier portions of Luke’s journey to the Black Hills we need not dwell.  The last hundred or hundred and fifty miles had to be traversed in a stage, and this form of traveling Luke found wearisome, yet not without interest.  There was a spice of danger, too, which added excitement, if not pleasure, to the trip.  The Black Hills stage had on more than one occasion been stopped by highwaymen and the passengers robbed.

The thought that this might happen proved a source of nervous alarm to some, of excitement to others.

Luke’s fellow passengers included a large, portly man, a merchant from some Western city; a clergyman with a white necktie, who was sent out by some missionary society to start a church at the Black Hills; two or three laboring men, of farmerlike appearance, who were probably intending to work in the mines; one or two others, who could not be classified, and a genuine dude, as far as appearance went, a slender-waisted, soft-voiced young man, dressed in the latest style, who spoke with a slight lisp.  He hailed from the city of New York, and called himself Mortimer Plantagenet Sprague.  As next to himself, Luke was the youngest passenger aboard the stage, and sat beside him, the two became quite intimate.  In spite of his affected manners and somewhat feminine deportment, Luke got the idea that Mr. Sprague was not wholly destitute of manly traits, if occasion should call for their display.

One day, as they were making three miles an hour over a poor road, the conversation fell upon stage robbers.

“What would you do, Colonel Braddon,” one passenger asked of the Western merchant, “if the stage were stopped by a gang of ruffians?”

“Shoot ’em down like dogs, sir,” was the prompt reply.  “If passengers were not so cowardly, stages would seldom be robbed.”

All the passengers regarded the valiant colonel with admiring respect, and congratulated themselves that they had with them so doughty a champion in case of need.

“For my part,” said the missionary, “I am a man of peace, and I must perforce submit to these men of violence, if they took from me the modest allowance furnished by the society for traveling expenses.”

“No doubt, sir,” said Colonel Braddon.  “You are a minister, and men of your profession are not expected to fight.  As for my friend Mr. Sprague,” and he directed the attention of the company derisively to the New York dude, “he would, no doubt, engage the robbers single-handed.”

“I don’t know,” drawled Mortimer Sprague.  “I am afraid I couldn’t tackle more than two, don’t you know.”

There was a roar of laughter, which did not seem to disturb Mr. Sprague.  He did not seem to be at all aware that his companions were laughing at him.