There was the sudden irruption of a laughing, curious crowd into the bar-room, led by Yuba Bill, the driver.  Then the crowd parted, and out of their midst stepped two children, a boy and a girl, the oldest apparently of not more than six years, holding each other’s hands.  They were coarsely yet cleanly dressed, and with a certain uniform precision that suggested formal charity.  But more remarkable than all, around the neck of each was a little steel chain, from which depended the regular check and label of the powerful Express Company, Wells; Fargo & Co., and the words:  “To Richard Spindler.”  “Fragile.”  “With great care.”  “Collect on delivery.”  Occasionally their little hands went up automatically and touched their labels, as if to show them.  They surveyed the crowd, the floor, the gilded bar, and Yuba Bill without fear and without wonder.  There was a pathetic suggestion that they were accustomed to this observation.

“Now, Bobby,” said Yuba Bill, leaning back against the bar, with an air half-paternal, half-managerial, “tell these gents how you came here.”

“By Wellth, Fargoth Expreth,” lisped Bobby.

“Whar from?”

“Wed Hill, Owegon.”

“Red Hill, Oregon?  Why, it’s a thousand miles from here,” said a bystander.

“I reckon,” said Yuba Bill coolly, “they kem by stage to Portland, by steamer to ’Frisco, steamer again to Stockton, and then by stage over the whole line.  Allers by Wells, Fargo & Co.’s Express, from agent to agent, and from messenger to messenger.  Fact!  They ain’t bin tetched or handled by any one but the Kempany’s agents; they ain’t had a line or direction except them checks around their necks!  And they’ve wanted for nothin’ else.  Why, I’ve carried heaps o’ treasure before, gentlemen, and once a hundred thousand dollars in greenbacks, but I never carried anythin’ that was watched and guarded as them kids!  Why, the division inspector at Stockton wanted to go with ’em over the line; but Jim Bracy, the messenger, said he’d call it a reflection on himself and resign, ef they didn’t give ’em to him with the other packages!  Ye had a pretty good time, Bobby, didn’t ye?  Plenty to eat and drink, eh?”

The two children laughed a little weak laugh, turned each other bashfully around, and then looked up shyly at Yuba Bill and said, “Yeth.”

“Do you know where you are goin’?” asked Starbuck, in a constrained voice.

It was the little girl who answered quickly and eagerly:—­

“Yes, to Krissmass and Sandy Claus.”

“To what?” asked Starbuck.

Here the boy interposed with a superior air:—­

“Thee meanth Couthin Dick.  He’th got Krithmath.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“Dead.”

“And your father?”

“In orthpittal.”