"Morrison," interjected the woman.
"Yes, I believe his name was Morrison, come to think of it," replied Tom.
"Well, Morrison got on the hand car."
"I rode on the hand car once," said the boy.
"Shut up!" ordered the woman. Her husband stopped again in the search to glare at the offender.
"Come on, find that shirt for me," said Tom. He was talking with one eye on the door, fearing the entrance of someone who would spoil his story. "The agent got on the hand car and went a piece down the track. Pretty soon he came back a-flying. 'The bridge is on fire!' he yelled. So we got on the hand car, and went down to the bridge. There the passenger train stood, with all the passengers and the train crew fighting the fire. They were trying to put it out so the train could get across. Can't you find it?" This last to the old man.
"We don't sell many shirts," he answered. "Don't pay. Most of the people makes 'em 'emselves. Have we got any shirts, Mary?"
"I ain't never seen any," she replied. "I bin here twenty years."
"Then sell me one of yours," Tom said.
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"