"She wants to be everything" said my namesake, rendered a little sullen by this concise putting of her case.
"You come with me," I said to the passenger, "and we'll do something better than this—something fine!"
Her face brightened, for she knew that I never made idle promises as do so many grown-ups. She jumped from her seat, even though the first Sullivan tooted a throaty whistle and the second rattled his brake machinery in warning. I helped her over the side of the box, and as we walked away she shouted back to the bereaved express train a consolatory couplet:—
"First the worst, second the same,
Last the best of all the game!"
That superb machinery of travel was silent, and the mechanics and officials, robbed of their passenger, eyed us with disfavor.
"They are terrapin-buzzards!" exclaimed my woman child, with deep conviction.
I shuddered fittingly at the violence of her speech.
Before we had gone far the train-boy deserted his post and came running after us.
"John B. Gough!" he exclaimed bitterly—profanely.
"He's swearing," warned his sister. "Look out, Uncle Maje, or he'll say 'Gamboge' next."