“Well, and ain’t you good?” demanded the signalman, filling his mouth with a potato.
“Mother says I am, and I feel as if I was,” replied Gertie with much simplicity, “but you know angels are very very good, and, of course, I’m not near so good as them.”
“You are,” said Sam, with an obstinate snap at a piece of meat; “you’re better than any of ’em. You only want wings to be complete.”
Gertie laughed, and then remarked that Sam dined late, to which Sam replied that he did, that he preferred it, and that he didn’t see why gentlefolk should have that sort of fun all to themselves.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Gertie, as Sam dropped his knife and fork, rang his electric bell, and laid hold of a lever.
“The limited mail, my dear,” said Sam, as the train rushed by.
“Oh, how it shakes the house! I wonder it don’t fall,” exclaimed the child.
“It’s made to be well shaken, like a bottle o’ bad physic,” replied Sam, as he went through the various processes already described, before sitting down to finish his oft-interrupted meal.
“Do you always take your dinner in that uncomfortable way?” asked Gertie, sitting down on the chest and looking earnestly into the manly countenance of her friend.
“Mostly,” said Sam, at last finishing off with a draught of pure water, and smacking his lips.