“Quarter past eleven,” said the agent.
“Twelve minutes past,” said the Philadelphian.
“Well, fourteen, only, I am,” said the agent.
“Thirteen,” said I.
“Just thirteen, I am,” said the driver, slipping back his watch to its place, and then, to the agent, “ha’an’t touched a hand of her since I left old Lancaster.”
Suddenly guessing the meaning of what had been for some time astonishing me—“You are from the North?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, too, Mr. Agent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the coach, and the cattle, and all?”