Enos wasn’t a bad looker, himself, nor he wasn’t no beauty neither.
One day I took the bosses wife to the train; and I was standin on the platform, when a middle aged female comes up to me and flung her arms around me.
“Hello! Sandy,” says she, “here I am. Aint ye glad? Why,” she says, “you’re better lookin than yer picture. I just took such a fancy to it that I got right on the train and come right on, and here I am.”
“Who are you lookin fer?” says I, gittin flustered, “I don’t know nothing about this. What do you mean, anyhow?”
“Young man,” says she, “is this you? and is this your handwritin?” so sayin, she pulls out a picture of me and a letter which I had written fer Enos in lead pencil; but his name was rubbed out and mine signed.
“Well, that’s my picture,” says I, “but that letter’s a forgery, as you might say.”
Well, she bust out a cryin and a crowd begun to form, so I put her in the wagon and took her to the mill fer dinner. Then I brought her back and put her on the train, her crying most of the time. I paid her fare both ways and she said I was real kind and must come to see her, but I aint been yet.