“What d’yer mean by sitting there like a toad in a rain-storm, holding us up when we’re twenty minutes late already?” he finished.
Tommie spread his hands with a gesture of deprecation.
“Orders,” he replied in explanation. “I can’t help it.”
“Orders?” said the motorman. “Orders? What are you tin-plated chumps doing in this part of the country, anyhow?”
Tommie shrugged his shoulders.
“It is like this,” said he: “Old Man Rockerfeller has come to call on an old woman that used to cook for him, and the company’s give him the rights of this car—my Mote’s taking him around to the house now. We’ve got to wait till he comes back, and you’ve got to wait, too; that’s all.”
The other jumped in the air with astonishment and fury.
“Well, wouldn’t that knock the frizzles out of your hair?” said he. “Those old devils can have anything they want, no matter what breaks, can’t they?”
“That is just about the size of it, partner,” said Tommie; “but here comes Jimmie. We’ll spin back and turn out for you below.”
“Thankee, old man,” said the motorman; “much obliged; but I can tell you one thing: I am going to join the Ancient and Honorable Order of Amalgamated Anarchists this night. You bet! Call on his cook, and block the whole line! Well—”