On a certain day he stood in the market square to see their first stage-coach put together.

It had come from Boston in pieces, for there was no one in Fairport that could make one.

The coach went away up into the country one day, and came back the next.

For a long time no one understood driving the horses properly, and they came in day after day with the blood streaming from them.

The whiffletree would swing round and hit them, and when their collars were taken off, their necks would be raw and bloody.