Freemantle he should be
late, but that he would look at the letters when he came
back, and then, ho! for East Boston!
If only you knew, dear readers, that to East Boston
you must go by a ferry-boat, as if it were named
Greenbush, or Brooklyn, or Camden.
As Mr. Starr took the street car after he had crossed
the ferry, to go into the unknown parts of East Boston,
he did notice that he gave the conductor his last ticket.
But what of that? "End of the route" came, and he girded
his loins, trudged over to the pottery he was in search
of, found it at last, found the foreman and gave his
orders, and then, through mud unspeakable, waded
back to the street car. He was the only passenger.
No wonder! The only wonder was that there was a car.
"Ticket, sir," said the conductor, after half a mile.
MR. STARR (SMILING). I have no ticket, but you
may sell me a dollar's worth. (FEELS FOR POCKETBOOK.)
Hello! I have not my pocketbook; changed my coat.
CONDUCTOR (SAVAGELY). They generally has changed
their coats.
MR. STARR (WITH DIGNITY, OFFERING A FIVE-CENT
NICKEL). There's your fare, man.
CONDUCTOR. That won't do, mud-hopper. Fare's
six cents.
MR. STARR (WELL REMEMBERING THE CENT, WHICH IS,
ALAS UNDER THE BUREAU, AND GROVELLING FOR IT IN BOTH
POCKETS). I have a cent somewhere.
CONDUCTOR (STOPPING CAR AND RETURNING FIVE-CENT
PIECE).
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