“Bless my soul, you don’t say so!” cried the horrified Major; “and these things going on about us in the nineteenth century!”
“But you need be under no alarm about your lot, sir; we’ve looked well to ’em, and seen that they’re pwoperly secured.”
“Well, come, that’s right—that’s some little consolation, at any rate,” exclaimed Major Oldschool, rubbing his hands.
“Yes, sir,” proceeded the loquacious railway clerk, “we’ve had the biggest done up in stout cords—’cause we were wather afwaid of him, on account of his twemendous size and weight.”
“Oh, indeed! What, he’s one of your big heavy fellows, is he?—and covered with hair, of course?”
The railway official, fancying the Major referred to one of the boxes, replied, glibly, “A wegular hair twunk, sir, and no mistake!”
“Well, I only hope you’ll keep the foreign puppy tied up safe, until I can give him in charge to those who will take good care of him, I warrant,” remarked the Major, still referring to the mustachioed Count.
The clerk, however, took the word puppy in its literal sense, and alluding to the greyhound, said—
“Don’t make yourself uneasy on that score, sir; we’ve got a cord wound the animal’s neck, and it’s quite impossible for the cweature to get away. We’ve given him some bwead and water, sir, so that he wont hurt for a little while.”
“That’s all right, then,” responded Major Oldschool; “bread and water’s quite good enough for him.”