“Betsey said you loved fried chicken an’ biscuits,” she said.
“It’s my favorite dish,” he replied, stiltedly, readily cloaking himself in his best table manners.
“I’m dyin’ fer a cup o’ coffee,” she said. “This dry food will clog in my throat without some ‘n’ to wash it down. I put in a package o’ ground coffee an’ my littlest coffee-pot, thinkin’ thar might be some way to boil water, but I don’t see no chance. You say we don’t stop long enough to git supper?”
“That’s what the conductor said.”
But at the next station, where they stopped for only a minute, he took the coffee-pot and hurried out. The train started on, and she was greatly alarmed, thinking that he was left, but he had entered the rear door and now approached with the coffee-pot steaming at the spout.
“Now, ef you’ve jest got a cup about you we ’ll be all hunkydory,” he laughed.
Her face lighted up with combined pleasure and relief. “Well, I certainly ‘lowed you was left back thar,” she laughed. “An’ how on earth did you git the coffee?”
“They sell it by the quart on the platform,” he replied. “I drapped onto that trick once when I was on my way to Californy.”
She got out a tin cup and filled it with the coffee. “I never was so downright grateful fer a thing in my life,” she remarked. “Now, help yorese’f, an’ I ’ll sip some along with my chicken an’ bread.”
“I won’t tech it tell you’ve had all you feel like takin’,” said he, gallantly.