“Wall,” sez I, “less be thankful that we got out alive—out of that black, movin’, rumblin’ roar.”
We wuz talkin’ it over in our room that night, a good, comfortable room, with all the modern improvements. It wuz a hotel for Americans that Martin had gone to, and it wuz jest like the best of our American tarverns.
Josiah sez, when he see the bright lights in our room, “Thank Heaven, I won’t have to use my candles!”
He had hearn that folks had to furnish their own lights in England, so he’d lugged round a couple of taller candles, run in our own candle moulds to home.
A hull soap-box full.
I told him not to, but he sed he wuzn’t goin’ to pay no high price for lights when we had a hull soap-box full under the suller stairs. So he had took ’em at the resk of spilin’ his dressin’-gown, as I told him.
“No, I don’t resk that,” sez he; “that is to the top of the trunk. The candles are packed down with my Sunday suit to the bottom of the trunk.”
I changed their position.
But his feelin’s for that dressin’-gown are simply idolatrous, as I tell him—specially the tossels.