"Where is Mrs. Braddock?" he asked.
"Train ain't in yet. You don't suppose the highlights travel this
away, do you? Well, nix, I should say not. Say, are you goin' to learn
the business? If you are, I got some fishworm oil that's jest the
thing to limber up yer joints. In two weeks, if you rub this oil of
mine all over you reg'lar, you c'n bend double three ways." It was an
old game. David stared but shook his head.
"I'm not going to be a performer," he said, with a wry smile at the
thought of "fishworm oil."
"Well, that bein' the case, have you got any chewin' about yer
clothes?"
"Chewing?" murmured David.
"Fine cut er plug, I don't care."
"I don't chew tobacco," said David stiffly.
"Oh," said the man in amaze. "A reg'lar little Robert Reed, eh? Well,
hop inside there. I gotta shut the door. Don't you cry if it's dark,
kid."
David crawled into the chariot and the door was closed after him. A
thin stream of daylight came down through the narrow slit beneath the
driver's seat. For a while he sat with his back against the wall,
pondering the situation. Then, almost without warning, sleep returned
to claim his senses.
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