Picking our teeth with our finger, like a
Chicago bummer, and pulling our handkerchief out of our pistol pocket and
blowing our nose like a thirty-two pounder, just as we had heard a Chicago
fellow do, we handed the man fifty cents, winked a couple of times and
started to go by. The tobacco sign standing there said, "twenty-five cents
more, please." We looked at him, winked, and said, "O, that will be all
right." "Two shillings more, my friend," said the summer resort. We winked
some more, and punched him in the ribs with our thumb, and said, "O, now,
old tapeworm, don't try to play it on us boys." And we laughed a sickly
sort of laugh. The fact of it was, we began to have doubts about the thing
working, and had a suspicion that the twinkle in Dan McDonald's eye meant
that he had been playing it on us. The landlord said he should have to
have two shillings more, and that we were blocking up the thoroughfare,
and we fumbled around and found it and paid him, and went out, probably
the most disgusted excursionist that ever was. Dan, who had watched the
whole business, slapped us on the shoulder, and said, "How did it work?"
Though not particularly hungry, we could have eaten him raw. When we go
east now, we take a lunch along, and when the other passengers are in to
supper, we sit on the woodpile at Sparta, eat our lunch and gaze at the
fountains, talk with the brakemen, and wonder if the landlord would know
us if we should go in and take a toothpick off the counter.
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