Nachrally they can't tear off
very far or they wudden't hear th' whistle whin it blew to call thim
back. F'r a week or two they spind their avenin's larnin' th' profissyon
iv baggageman, atin' off thrunks be day an sleepin' on thim be night.
Evenchooly th' time comes f'r thim to lave th' sthrife an' throuble iv
th' city that they're used to f'r th' sthrife an' throuble iv th'
counthry that they don't know how to handle. They catch th' two two f'r
Mudville-be-th'-Cannery, or they are just about to catch it whin they
remimber that they left their tickets, money an' little Abigail Ann
behind thim, an' they catch th' six forty-five which doesn't stop at
Mudville excipt on Choosdahs an' Fridahs in Lent, an' thin on'y on
signal. Fin'lly they're off. Th' dust an' worry iv th' city with its
sprinkled pavements an' its glowin' theaytres is left behind. Th' cool
counthry air blows into th' car laden with th' rich perfume iv dainty
food with which th' fireman is plyin' his ir'n horse. Th' thrain stops
occasion'lly. In fact ye might betther say that occasion'lly it don't
stop. A thrain that is goin' to anny iv th' penal colonies where most
men spind their vacations will stop at more places thin a boy on an
errand. Whiniver it sees a human habitation it will pause an' exchange a
few wurruds iv pleasant greetin'.
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