A quick glance from Bascom—­a glance that I understood—­then: 

“Why, bless my soul, I never heard of such a thing.  Man, it is impossible.”

“I knew you would say it.  I’ll fetch the cat.”

He went in the house.  Bascom said: 

“There—­what did I tell you?  Now, that is the way to handle Eckert.  You see, I have petted him along patiently, and put his suspicions to sleep.  I am glad we came.  You tell the boys about it when you go back.  Cat eat a cocoanut—­oh, my!  Now, that is just his way, exactly—­he will tell the absurdest lie, and trust to luck to get out of it again.

“Cat eat a cocoanut—­the innocent fool!”

Eckert approached with his cat, sure enough.

Bascom smiled.  Said he: 

“I’ll hold the cat—­you bring a cocoanut.”

Eckert split one open, and chopped up some pieces.  Bascom smuggled a wink to me, and proffered a slice of the fruit to puss.  She snatched it, swallowed it ravenously, and asked for more!

We rode our two miles in silence, and wide apart.  At least I was silent, though Bascom cuffed his horse and cursed him a good deal, notwithstanding the horse was behaving well enough.  When I branched off homeward, Bascom said: 

“Keep the horse till morning.  And—­you need not speak of this —­foolishness to the boys.”

CHAPTER VIII.

In a little while all interest was taken up in stretching our necks and watching for the “pony-rider”—­the fleet messenger who sped across the continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters nineteen hundred miles in eight days!  Think of that for perishable horse and human flesh and blood to do!  The pony-rider was usually a little bit of a man, brimful of spirit and endurance.  No matter what time of the day or night his watch came on, and no matter whether it was winter or summer, raining, snowing, hailing, or sleeting, or whether his “beat” was a level straight road or a crazy trail over mountain crags and precipices, or whether it led through peaceful regions or regions that swarmed with hostile Indians, he must be always ready to leap into the saddle and be off like the wind!  There was no idling-time for a pony-rider on duty.  He rode fifty miles without stopping, by daylight, moonlight, starlight, or through the blackness of darkness—­just as it happened.  He rode a splendid horse that was born for a racer and fed and lodged like a gentleman; kept him at his utmost speed for ten miles, and then, as he came crashing up to the station where stood two men holding fast a fresh, impatient steed, the transfer of rider and mail-bag was made in the twinkling of an eye, and away flew the eager pair and were out of sight before the spectator could get hardly the ghost of a look.  Both rider and horse went “flying light.”  The rider’s dress was thin, and fitted close; he wore a “round-about,” and a skull-cap, and tucked his pantaloons into his boot-tops like a race-rider.  He carried no arms—­he carried nothing that was not absolutely necessary, for even the postage on his literary freight was worth five dollars a letter.