“Which way is it going?” asked Norval, not wishing to return by the street they had already walked along.
“Both ways,” said the conductor. “Hinside passengers one way, houtside t’other.”
“How do you manage that?” asked Norval.
“Himproved happlication of Mongrieff’s recoil utilizer. When we goes hoff, hinside passengers blown to Hattems, houtside recoils with shock and ’orrer in hopposite d’rection.”
MISS MANAGE MEANT IT.
The boys at once resolved they would not go inside, but from curiosity ran round to look into the gun. They found, packed very tight in it, three wooden soldiers, a grate party with two brass dogs at his feet, a dancing nigger, a Miss Manage—who, being on her way to an archery meeting, had a beau by her side—a dumb-waiter, and a snob.
This reassured the boys, who, not wishing to go up the steep street towards which the gun pointed, clambered on to the top. They were scarcely seated, when a clown with a red-hot poker rushed out of the coach-office, and applied the end to the touch-hole. Immediately there is a fearful bang, and the Blunderbus starts backwards. The inside passengers fly down the street helter-skelter, except Miss Manage, who keeps herself collected, shooting out gracefully à la Zazel, being, alas! a sell for her beau, who wishes to cut his stick; but she, without a quiver even in her eyelid, holds on to him as he talks of flight, turning ashy pale at such a narrow escape. Not having forgotten the excellent rule to have two strings to your beau, she had made a bolt impossible.
AGUNNY.
