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"They are terrapin-buzzards!" exclaimed my woman child, with deep conviction. I shuddered fittingly at the violence of her speech. Before we had gone far the train-boy deserted his post and came running after us. "John B. Gough!" he exclaimed bitterly profanely. "He's swearing," warned his sister. "Look out, Uncle Maje, or he'll say 'Gamboge' next."
I had, moreover, for the same reason, permitted my namesake to roll under his tongue the formidable and satisfying expletive, "John B. Gough!" But I felt that the line must be drawn at Gamboge. Terrapin-buzzards was bad enough, though it was true that this might be used innocently, as in a moment of mild dismay, or as an exclamation of mere astonishment without sinister import.
"I don't care," retorted the indignant follower; "you can't have a train without any passenger it's silly. I don't care if I do say Gamboge. There! Gamboge it!" I turned upon him. I had endured "terrapin-buzzards," hurled at the group by my woman child, perceiving need of relief for her pent-up passion.