At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann’s waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp-chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where.
“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must run or we shall not catch the train.”
“Maria Ann,” said I, “that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I can run with all this freight?”
“You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don’t want a scene on the street, you will start, too.”
So I ran.
I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her parasol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them.
“Maria,” I said, “how is this for a cool morning ride?”
Said she, “You are a brute, Jenkins.”
Said I, “You have made that observation before, my love.”
I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic-goers.