Wall, I kinder wanted to visit Mugby Junction, as Dickens named Rugby Junction. It wuzn’t fur from Warwick, and I’d loved to seen it, and eat one of them sandwitches, and been glared at by the female in charge there, and her help, and seen her poor, browbeat husband and the Boy, but didn’t know as they wuz all alive.
And if they wuz, as Josiah well sed, sez he, “My stumick is bad enough now, without eatin’ leather sandwitches.”
And I sez, “I’d love to give ’em my recipe for good yeast bread, and I’d willin’ly tell ’em how to make delicious sandwitches, and not ask a cent for it.”
Sez I, “Take good minced chicken, or lamb, and a little mustard and sweet butter, and a pinch of minced onions and—”
But Josiah interrupted me, “They’d only look stunily at you if you offered your services; why,” sez he, “they always look as if they feel so much above you at our railroad stations to home, that you want to crawl into your hand-bag and git out of their way. They’d despise your overtoors.”
“Wall,” sez I, “my conscience would be clear, and travellers’ nightmairs wouldn’t be so frequent.”
But a bystander observed that they had good sandwitches there now.
Havin’ been turned round in their stuny and leather course, by Dickens, I spoze.
So we packed up our things and started in pretty good sperits for the Lake Deestrict.