He was apparently driving on into the country. Therefore I suffered myself to be pulled up on to the seat. Around the corner we came to green fields and bushes, and I thanked the good St. Francis and all his holy company.
I said to my charioteer: “As soon as you get a mile out, let me down. I do not want to get near any more towns for awhile.”
“Allaright,” he said. On his wrist was tattooed a blue dagger. The first thing he did was unmerciful. He went a yard out of his way to drive over the lame cat which had stopped in despair, just ahead of us. Pussy died without a shriek. Then the cruel one, gathering by my manner that I was not pleased with this incident, created a diversion. He reproved his horse for not hurrying. It was not so much a curse as an Italian oration. The poor animal tried to respond, but hobbled so, his master surprised me by checking the gait to a walk. Then he cooed to the horse like a two hundred pound turtledove.
In a previous incarnation this driver must have been one of the lower animals, he had so many dealings with such. Some rocks half the size of base-balls were piled at his feet. A ferocious dog shot out from a cottage doorway. With lightning action he hurled the ammunition at the offender. The beast retreated weeping aloud from pain. And Mr. Cellini showed his teeth with delight.
And now, after passing several pleasant farm-houses, where I ran a chance for a free lodging for the asking, I was vexed to be suddenly driven into a town. We hobbled, rattled on, into a wilderness thicker every minute with fire-spouting smoke-stacks.
“This ees Franklin,” said my charioteer. “Nice-a-town. MY town,” he added earnestly. “I getta reech (rich) to-morrow.”
He began to cross-examine the writer of this tale. I counselled myself not to give my name and address, lest I be held for ransom.
After many harmless inquiries, he asked in a would-be ingratiating manner, “Poppa reech?”
“No. Poor.”
“Poppa verra reech?”