I had heerd that there wasn’t no information to be extracted from ’em as a class, and I give up; and I don’t know what my next move would have been, if I hadn’t catched sight of that beloved face and that old familiar hat in front of me; I hastened forred and kep’ considerable calm in mind, while my body was bein’ crowded and pushed round, for I thought if my conjectures was true they would have reason enough to goar me.
IN THE CROWD.
But presently, or about that time we found ourselves carried by the crowd, and stranded (as it were) before some little places that looked some like the place the ticket agent looked from at Betsey Bobbet and me, when we bought our tickets for New York village; and I begun to feel easier in my mind, for they seemed to be purchasin’ tickets for the Sentinal. There was one place for wimmen, and one for men, not but a little ways apart; and my Josiah and me kinder divided up and waited our turn, and when he got a chance I see him step up in a peaceable way and ask how much a ticket cost.
“Fifty cents for a adult,” says the man.
Says Josiah, “I haint a adult.”
Says the man, “You be.”
Josiah looked as if he would sink to be accused—right there in company—of sunthin’ he never was guilty of in the world; it took him so aback that he couldn’t say another word to defend himself; he looked as mortified and sheepish as any black sheep I ever laid eyes on; and I jest stepped forred and took his part—for it madded me to see my pardner so brow-beat and imposed upon. Again Josiah says in a meachin’ way, for as mortified as he felt he seemed determined to stick to the truth, and not own up to what he wasn’t guilty of. “I haint a adult,” says he.
“No!” says I, “anybody that says that of my pardner, says what they can’t prove. Josiah Allen is a likely man; his character stands firm; he never had no such name, and it can’t be proved onto him; he is as sound moralled a man as you will find in Jonesville or the world!”
“I mean,” says the man, “50 cents for everybody except childern carried in the arms.”