"I like you—I do!" said Mr. Tarbox. "Ef ever I git a chance to do you a good turn, I'll do it."
"Thank you, Mr. Tarbox. I am sorry Colonel Sharpley was rude to you."
"I can stand it," said Jonathan; "and I mean to go to the same tavern, too."
The custom-house officials came on board and examined the luggage. This over, the passengers were permitted to land. On shore they encountered a crowd of hackmen.
"To the St. George Hotel," said Colonel Sharpley, selecting one of the number. "Here, Frank, get in."
Just behind was Mr. Tarbox, standing guard over a dilapidated trunk and a green chest, the latter of which contained his precious plow.
"Have a cab, sir?" asked a short, stout hackman.
"What are you goin' to charge?" asked Jonathan.
"Where do you want me to drive, sir?"