“I believe you,” said a traveling salesman in a sealskin cap; “and the sooner you bid us good riddance the better we shall like it.”
“And you needn’t mind about wishing us many happy returns either,” said a black-whiskered man in a plaid ulster. “If we ever get away from here, you won’t see us again soon!”
“What place is this?” inquired a gray-haired lady, who sat just in front of the Burnhams.
“Washin’ton’s what they call it,” said the jolly farmer. “Pop’lar name enough; but the place don’t seem to be over pop’lar jest now with some on ye.” And he laughed a big, jolly laugh.
“Is it, like our capital, a ‘city of magnificent distances’?” inquired the man in the ulster.
“I reckon it is. It’s consid’able of a distance from everywhere else on airth. But it’s nigher to heaven ’n any other place hereabouts.”
“What is raised on this hill?” inquired the traveling salesman.
“Wind, mostly. Is that article in your line?”
The laugh was on the salesman, but he enjoyed it as well as any of them. A bit of a girl about three years old, tugging a flaxen-haired doll under one arm, here came sidling down the aisle of the car.
“Ith oo Thanty Kauth?” she said, lifting her great, solemn black eyes to the farmer’s face. The laugh was on him now; and he joined in it uproariously.