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Dog-oned ef th'aint abaout ev'thing tha'. Got the cote-haouse an' all, the relroad an' all Miss Sally Madeira, Mist' Crit Madeira's daughter, she lives tha'." It had gone like that every time. Not once in the last twenty miles had Steering exchanged a word with man or woman without this sort of reference to Canaan and, collaterally, to Miss Sally Madeira.
Proceeding leisurely and reflectively, as though he had decided in his own mind how to classify the stranger, the farmer had generally added, "Lots of prospectors ride by nowadays. They head in to the relroad f'm here, you know you aint a-goin' to ketch the relroad at Poetical?"
Immediately the hill tribe had eyed him with renewed interest. "Going on to Canaan!" the farmer at their head had repeated, an impressive esteem in his treatment of the word Canaan. "Gre't taown, Canaan! You strike the relroad tha' all righty.
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