“Dat, sir, is a ’Merikin bed bug. Is you gut any in Englan’ dat kin beat it?”
SHE DIDN’T LIKE MY YELLOW SHOES
Human nature is the same the world over, and the train is the best place to get the cream of it.
The other day, while on my way from Kansas City to St. Louis, in a day coach, I lost my seat to two ladies, who, disregarding my suit case and coat, had taken possession while I was in the rear getting a drink of water. This I did not mind, as there were plenty of seats vacant. Soon after the newcomers had arrived they began to buy and eat fruit, using a time-table which I had secured and marked for my convenience, as a receptacle for the peelings and seed. This annoyed me just a little, for I could not get a fresh one until I reached the end of my journey, but I said nothing.
An hour later, after I had taken a short nap and lost the run of the stations, I desired to consult my schedule. Looking over the way, I found that the younger woman had disappeared, leaving her companion, an old lady dressed in heavy black, wearing on her head an antiquated split bonnet. Thinking of nothing but my time-table, I got up and went to where the aged traveler sat and, without much ado, reached down and picked it up. My intention was to steal away unobserved, so that the woman would not feel called upon to offer an apology for taking my seat, but I was foiled. As I lifted the book a cold, bony, clammy hand shot from beneath a black sleeve and fastened my wrist with a vice-like grip. The turn was so sudden and so unexpected that I lost my equilibrium.
“My time-table, good lady, is all that I want,” said I, as meekly as possible.
“It’s mine,” was the sharp reply, the hand closing on my wrist.
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I have carried that folder for two days.”