"There was a fellah came hyar to play the organ for the Episcopal Church," the negro went on. "He was called Street. The other fellah was only fit to turn the music for him. He had the goods, b'God he had. Tha's what I told them."
With that I got away. Outside the shop a hawker cried out to me:
"Kahm'ere!"
"What d'you want?" said I.
"I've a good safety razor."
"Don't use them."
"A fountain pen to write home to your wife...."
The hawker had many wares.
I spent the night in a saloon at Venice, and watched the rate at which German fishermen can drink beer.
Next morning I walked across Sandusky Bay by the Lake Shore railway-bridge, a mile and a half long—an unpleasant business, watching for the express trains and avoiding being run over. At last I got to Danbury, and could escape from the rails to the cinder-path at the side. The engine-drivers and firemen of the freight trains greeted me as they passed me, and now and then I was able to offer "Casey Jones" a cup of coffee and exchange gossip.