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Updated: May 12, 2025
The men trooped past him and into the store, talking and chaffing, their clothes toil-stained and ragged, their faces tanned nearly black by the sun. "Now, then, old brusher, where's your reach-me-downers?" one asked. "Sling out a pound of twist as a start," another demanded.
Always a young man known, as a "pusher," he had been, since the day of his graduation from the manual training department of a New York High School, an inveterate brusher of clothes, hair, teeth, and even eyebrows, and had learned the value of laying all his clean socks toe upon toe and heel upon heel in a certain drawer of his bureau, which would be known as the sock drawer.
Arrogant! or 'here again, Brusher! brings them cheerfully back to whine and look in the old man's face for applause. Nor is he chary of his praise. 'G oood betch! Arrogant! g oood betch! says he, leaning over his horse's shoulder towards her, and jerking his hand to induce her to proceed forward again.
"Astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod, I gallop the brusher along; Like a grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow's god, And a sentiment give, or a song, My brave boys. "We are dry where we sit, though the coying drops seem With pearls the moist walls to emboss; From the arch mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream, Like stucco-work cut out of moss: My brave boys.
"All right, Brusher!" laughed Gerrard, as they rode out into the cool darkness, an anxious dog-boy having extricated his charge. But before they reached the outskirts of the camp, the way was barred by a row of silent natives, some of them holding out papers, others extending empty hands. "What's this?" demanded Charteris ferociously. "Dohai, sahib, dohai !" was the general cry.
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