A little spot was comin’ and goin’ ’way down the track. The bunch looked that direction silent. Pretty soon, we heerd a rumblin’, and the spot got bigger, and steady.
The boys got down offen the platform and we moseyed over t’ where the end car allus stopped.
Too-oo-oot!
Shackleton reached out fer my hand. “Good-bye, Cupid, you ole son-of-a-gun,” he says almost squeezin’ the paw offen me.
“Take keer of you’self,” says the sheriff.
“Don’t let them fly Noo York dudes git you scairt none” (this was Chub).
“That ain’t you’ satchel, Cupid, that’s the mail-bag.”
“Wal, we’d rattle anybody.”
“Here’s Boston, he wants t’ say good-bye.”
“Wave t’ the eatin’-house gals,–cain’t you see ’em at that upper winda?”