"So't is! That's a fact! Call an' see us, when you come round our way!"
And the old gentleman, greatly mollified by the sympathy of his new friend, moved on to find fresh auditors for his tale of woe.
It came to be nine o'clock on the morning of Thanksgiving-Day, and still the snow fell with unabated violence, and still drifts piled higher and higher about the captive train. The conductor and one of the firemen had started off on foot at early dawn in search of food for the passengers, and now there arrived, ploughing nearly breast-high through the snow, a convoy from one of the nearest farm-houses carefully guarding a valuable treasure of bread, cheese, bacon, eggs, and pumpkin-pies; but so many were the mouths to fill that it scarcely gave a bite apiece to the men, after the women and children had been cared for.
Then the passengers began to grow clamorous. Even the Funny Man had his woes, for some rogue entered the saloon where he slept and stole the whiskey-flask from his pocket. When he awoke and discovered his loss, he remarked that he knew where there was more of the same sort, and turned over to sleep again. But all were not so philosophical as he. Some cursed the railroad company, some cursed the fate that had placed them there, some cursed their folly in leaving comfortable quarters in order to fast in the snow on Thanksgiving-Day.
Presently the impatiently-pulled-out watches showed ten o'clock, and still it snowed. Then a rumor ran through the train that there were a couple of barrels of chickens, ready-dressed for market, in the express-car, and a general rush in that direction followed. One of the first to hear of it, and one of the first to be on the spot, was Samson Newell.
"Stand back, gentlemen," he cried to the foremost of the throng that poured eagerly into the car,—"stand back a moment. This poultry is in charge of the express messenger, and we have no right to take it without his license."
As he spoke, he placed himself beside the messenger. There was a determination in his eye and manner that held the crowd back for a short time.
"The chickens are mine," the messenger said; "I bought them on speculation; they will spoil before I can get anywhere with them, and they are now too late for Thanksgiving. You may have them for what I gave."
"I will give five dollars towards paying for them"; and Samson Newell drew out his pocket-book.
"Here's a dollar!" "I'll give a half!" "Count me in for two dollars!" cried the crowd, favorably struck with the notion of paying for their provender.