"No, I call you a hoss. How do you feel?"
"I don't feel any better for your hitting me on the back, sir," said the clerk, angrily.
"Sho! your back must be weak. Been sea-sick?"
"I have suffered some from sea-sickness," returned the person addressed, with an air of restraint.
"So have I. I tell you I thought something was goin' to cave in."
"Of what earthly interest does he suppose that is to me?" thought the clerk, superciliously.
"Fact is," continued Mr. Tarbox, "I'd a good deal rather be to home in Squashboro', livin' on baked beans, than be here livin' on all their chicken fixin's. I suppose you've heard of Squashboro' hain't you?"
"I can't say I have," said the clerk, coldly, adjusting his eye-glasses, and turning away from his uncongenial companion.
"Squashboro', State o' Maine. It's a pooty smart place—got three stores, a blacksmith's shop, a grist mill, and two meetin'-houses."