Ye'll get yer share on't
when ye gits to my place." He sets the jug down, and passes the
gourd back, saying: "What a saucy hussy ye are!" slapping the
woman's black shoulder playfully. "Give him some-won't ye', boys?"
he concludes.
Mr. M'Fadden (the cars are not yet ready to start, but the dep“t is
thronging with travellers, and the engine is puffing and snorting,
as the driver holds his hand on the throttle, and the stoker crams
with pitch pine knots the iron steed of fiery swiftness) will step
out and take the comfort of his cigar. He pats his preacher on the
shoulder, takes off his shackles, rubs his head with his hand, tells
the boys to keep an eye on him. "Yes, mas'r," they answer, in tones
of happy ignorance. The preacher must be jolly, keep on a bright
face, never mind the old gal and her young 'uns, and remember what a
chance he will have to get another. He can have two or more, if he
pleases; so says his very generous owner.
Mr. M'Fadden shakes hands with his friends on the platform, smokes
his cigar leisurely, mingles with the crowd importantly, thinking
the while what an unalloyed paragon of amiability he is. Presently
the time-bell strikes its warning; the crowd of passengers rush for
the cars; the whistle shrieks; the exhaust gives forth its gruff
snorts, the connections clank, a jerk is felt, and onward
bounds-mighty in power, but controlled by a finger's slightest
touch-the iron steed, dragging its curious train of living
merchandise.
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