“The car in front is your car,” said the conductor to another man, in especially dirty gray uniform.
“You kin hev it,” said the soldier, throwing his palm open with an air of happy extravagance, and a group of gray-headed “citizens,” just behind, exploded a loud country laugh.
“D’ I onderstaynd you to lafe at me, saw?” drawled the soldier, turning back with a pretence of heavy gloom on his uncombed brow.
“Laughin’ at yo’ friend yondeh,” said one of the citizens, grinning and waving his hand after the departing conductor.
“’Caze if you lafe at me again, saw,”—the frown deepened,—“I’ll thess go ’ight straight out iss caw.”[3]
The laugh that followed this dreadful threat was loud and general, the victims laughing loudest of all, and the soldier smiling about benignly, and slowly scratching his elbows. Even the two ladies smiled. Alice’s face remained impassive. She looked twice into her mother’s to see if there was no smile there. But the mother smiled at her, took off her hood and smoothed back the fine gold, then put the hood on again, and tied its strings under the upstretched chin.
Presently Alice pulled softly at the hollow of her mother’s elbow.
“Mamma—mamma!” she whispered. Mary bowed her ear. The child gazed solemnly across the car at another stranger, then pulled the mother’s arm again, “That man over there—winked at me.”
And thereupon another man, sitting sidewise on the seat in front, and looking back at Alice, tittered softly, and said to Mary, with a raw drawl:—
“She’s a-beginnin’ young.”