There are times when good men swear, merely because polite language fails of forcefulness. At such crises vigorous young women, being denied that form of superlative, have recourse to slang.
“You’ve got another guess coming,” said Mary stoutly.
“I’m pleased to hear you say so,” commended “Captain” McDonald. “There’s plenty of good young men in America.”
“I’m—I’m going to marry the best of them to-night,” confided Mary. “I’m running away this very minute! He’s going to meet me at Jaffa Junction!”
The trainman’s face clouded dubiously. The girl’s heart began beating panic time. The dice of Fate were rolling.
“Your folks don’t know about this?” he inquired.
She shook her head. “They—they drove me to it!”
“Who’s your young man?” asked the “Captain.” She informed him.
“Captain” McDonald sat pondering inscrutably for a long while. The girl’s breast heaved convulsively in suspense. The small god stood by in Napoleonic posture, but whether it was the posture of Austerlitz or Waterloo he did not himself know.
“I don’t see nothing the matter with Mr. Copewell, ma’am,” the man at last adjudicated, “but I promised to see you safe to Mercerville. It’s apt to look kind of careless-like to lose a young lady that’s put in your charge.”