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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Who are you?" repeated Aunt Thankful. The big man answered. His sunburned, good-humored face was wrinkled and puckered with amazement. "Well," he stammered, "I we Humph! well, we're neighbors and but but, I don't know as I know you, ma'am, do I?" "I don't know why you should. I don't know you, fur's that goes. What are you doin' here? Did that depot-wagon man send you?" "Depot-wagon man?
But he could qualify for the nervous dyspepsy class all right, judging by his language to the depot-wagon driver. When he got through making remarks because one of his trunks had been forgot, that driver's quotation, according to Peter T., had "dropped to thirty cents, with a second assessment called." I jedged the meals at our table would be as agreeable as a dog-fight.
A last wave of Thankful's hand, the answering wave of a handkerchief from the rear seat of the depot-wagon, and the parting was over. Thankful went into the house. Lonely! She had never been more lonely in her life, except when the news of her husband's death was brought to her. The pang of loneliness which followed her brother Jedediah's departure for the Klondike was as nothing to this.
She was finding it hard enough to face the coming separation with outward cheerfulness, and the long ride to the railway station she found to be too great a strain. So she made the lameness of George Washington's off fore leg an excuse for keeping that personage in the stable, and it was in Winnie S.'s depot-wagon that Emily journeyed to the Centre. They said good-by at the front gate.
"Cal'late Winnie S. and his dad come around early and towed it home," surmised Captain Obed. "Seemed to me I smelled sulphur when I opened my bedroom window this mornin'. Guess 'twas a sort of floatin' memory of old man Holt's remarks when he went by. That depot-wagon was an antique and antiques are valuable these days. Want to go inside, do you?" Thankful hesitated.
"There's another train at four, isn't there?" he asked an official. "Four-thirty, express. Yes, sir." A hackman came up soliciting patronage. Ruthven motioned him to follow, leading the way to the edge of the platform. "I don't want to drive to the village. What have you got there, a sleigh?" It was the usual Long Island depot-wagon, on runners instead of wheels.
It ain't been much more than a patent medicine advertisin' circular since the blow struck. Well, have you looked enough? Shall we heave ahead and go aboard your craft, Mrs. Barnes?" They walked on, down the little hill and up the next, and entered the front yard of the Barnes house. There were the marks in the mud and sand where the depot-wagon had overturned, but the wagon itself was gone.
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