CHAPTER XXIX.
AN OX CART.
It happened not far from this same time in the end of August, when Mr. Dillwyn and Tom Caruthers came together on the Piazzetta of St. Mark, that another meeting took place in the far-away regions of Shampuashuh. A train going to Boston was stopped by a broken bridge ahead, and its passengers discharged in one of the small towns along the coast, to wait until the means of getting over the little river could be arranged. People on a railway journey commonly do not like to wait; it was different no doubt in the days of stage-coaches, when patience had some exercise frequently; now, we are spoiled, and you may notice that ten minutes' delay is often more than can be endured with complacency. Our fathers and mothers had hours to wait, and took it as a matter of course.
Among the impatient passengers thrown out at Independence were two specially impatient.
"What on earth shall we do with ourselves?" said the lady.
"Pity the break-down had not occurred a little further on," said the gentleman. "You might have visited your friend—or Tom's friend—Miss Lothrop. We are just a few miles from Shampuashuh."
"Shampuashuh!—Miss Lothrop!—Was that where she lived? How far,
George?"
"A few miles—half a dozen, perhaps."
"O George, let us get horses and drive there!"
"But then you may not catch the train this evening again."