| ON THE ROAD TO BRUSHVILLE. |
And he looked as if he was going to enjoy the fun. The freight train arrived, slackened speed, and I boarded, with my portmanteau and my umbrella, a car loaded with timber. I placed my handbag on the timber—you know, the one I had when traveling in “the neighborhood of Chicago”—sat on it, opened my umbrella, and waved a “tata” to the station-master.
It was raining fast, and I had a journey of some thirty miles to make at the rate of about twelve miles an hour.
Oh, those pies! They now seemed to have resolved to fight it out. Sacrebleu! De bleu! de bleu!
A few miles from Brushville I had to get out, or rather, get down, and take a ticket for Brushville on board a local train.
Benumbed with cold, wet through, and famished, I arrived here at ten o’clock last night. The peach pie, the apple pie, and the apricot pie had settled their differences and become on friendly and accommodating terms.
I was able, on arriving at the hotel, to enjoy some light refreshments, which I only obtained, at that time of night, thanks to the manager, whom I had the pleasure of knowing personally.
At eleven o’clock I went to bed, or, to use a more proper expression for my Philadelphia readers, I retired.
I had been “retiring” for about half an hour, when I heard a knock at the door.
“Who’s there?” I grumbled from under the bedclothes.