Timswitty. Not since Clothahump had provided him with
funds for transport. The local equivalent of a stagecoach
was passing through Lynchbany, and he bought himself a
18
Alan Dean Poster
seat on the boxy contraption. It was pulled by four hand-
some horses and presided over by a couple of three-foot-
tall chimpmunks who cursed like longshoremen. They
wore dirty uniforms and scurried about, wrestling baggage
and cartons into the rear of the stage.
Jon-Tom had the wrong notion of who was in charge,
however. As he strolled past the team of four, one of the
horses cocked an eye in his direction.
“Come on, bud, hurry it up. We haven’t got all day.”
“Sorry. The ticket agent told me you weren’t leaving for
another fifteen minutes.”
The mare snorted. “That senile bastard. I don’t know
what the world’s coming to when you can’t rely on your
local service people anymore.”
“Tell me about it,” said the stallion yoked to her.
“Unfortunately we were bom with hooves instead of
hands, so we still have to hire slow-moving fools with
small brains to handle business details for us.”
“Right on, Elvar,” said the stallion behind him.
The discussion continued until the stage left the depot.
“All aboard?” asked the mare second in harness. “Hold
on to your seats, then.”
The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the
luggage, preening themselves and trying to catch their
breath. There was no need for drovers, since the horses
knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders
and unloaders and went along to see to the needs of the