The day's work had long since begun, and there was the usual din and
uproar of railroad traffic. Trucks, laden high with boxes and barrels,
were being driven to the wide doors, and porters were thundering and
thumping and lurching the freight from one set of cars into another;
their primary objects being to make a racket and demolish raw material,
thereby increasing manufacture and export, but incidentally to load or
unload as much freight as possible in a given time.
Timothy entered, trundling his carriage, where Lady Gay sat enthroned
like a Murray Hill belle on a dog-cart, conscious pride of Sunday hat on
week-day morning exuding from every feature; and Rags followed close
behind, clean, but with a crushed spirit, which he could stimulate only
by the most seductive imaginations. No one molested them, for Timothy
was very careful not to get in any one's way. Finally, he drew up in
front of a high blackboard, on which the names of various way-stations
were printed in gold letters:--
CHESTERTOWN.
SANDFORD.
REEDVILLE.
BINGHAM.
SKAGGSTOWN.
ESBURY.
SCRATCH CORNER.
HILLSIDE.
MOUNTAIN VIEW.
EDGEWOOD.
PLEASANT RIVER.
"The names get nicer and nicer as you read down the line, and the
furtherest one of all is the very prettiest, so I guess we'll go there,"
thought Timothy, not realizing that his choice was based on most
insecure foundations; and that, for aught he knew, the milk of human
kindness might have more cream on it at Scratch Corner than at Pleasant
River, though the latter name was certainly more attractive.
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