She laughs at everything Tom says, whether she sees the
point or not, and most when there is none to see. Tom will be cook, because
he prefers his own messing to any of ours, and we can't spare room in the
wagon for a regular camp chef. Mr. Harshaw is the "swamper," because he
makes himself useful doing things my lord doesn't like to do. And Kitty is
not Miss Co-myn, as we called it, but Miss "Cummin," as they call it,--"the
Comin' woman," Tom calls her. Mr. Billings, the teamster, completes our
party.
* * * * *
Sept.--Never mind the date. This is to-morrow morning, and we are at
Walter's Ferry. It seems a week since we left Bisuka. We started yesterday
on the flank of a dust-storm, and soon were with the main column, the wind
pursuing us and hurling the sweepings of the road into the backs of our
necks. The double-sides raised us out of the worst of the dust, else I
think we should have been smothered. It was a test of our young lady's
traveling manners. She kept her head down and her mouth shut; but when I
shrieked at her to ask how she was standing it, she plucked her dusty veil
from between her lips and smiled for answer.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193