"Because they won't let you. The towns are close together, for the country is small, and if you beat your way on a train you'd be spotted before you traveled ten miles. And another thing, there are no brake-beams on the other side, no blind baggage and no bumpers, so where are you going to ride? And another thing, too; the railway cars over there are totally different from those here. The coaches are different, the engines are different, the freight cars are different; everything is so different," said Billy with a reminiscent smile.
"Go on, Billy; you're only talking to hear yourself talk," said I, thinking he was romancing.
"You say, Billy," continued I, "that the ways of the people are different over there; in what way?"
"In every way. I couldn't begin to explain it all to you, if I tried six months."
"They talk English over there, don't they? Can't I talk English?"
"Of course you can," laughed Billy; "but their language is different from yours and so are their ways. Their victuals are different; their dress, their politics—"
"Cut out the politics, Billy; I ain't going over there to run for office. They must be a queer lot on the other side of the pond to judge from what you say."
"Not a bit queer," warmly responded Billy. "They are just different, that is all. We will suppose you are over there, Windy. What will you do?"
"Do the Britishers, of course; what else?"