Well, you won't have to wait for me. I've jest got through
mending my little go-cart--though, to be sure, it don't look, no how,
like the thing it was. The rigilators made awful sad work of the box and
body, and, what with patching and piecing, there's no two eends on it
alike."
"Well, you're ready, however, and we shall have no difficulty at the
last hour?"
"None to speak on. Jared Bunce aint the chap for burning daylight; and
whenever you're ready to say, 'Go,' he's gone. But, I say, Master Ralph,
there's one little matter I'd like to look at."
"What's that? Be quick, now, for I've much to see to."
"Only a minute. Here, you see, is a letter I've jest writ to my brother,
Ichabod Bunce, down to Meriden. He's a 'cute chap, and quite a Yankee,
now, I tell you; and as I knows all his ways, I've got to keep a sharp
look-out to see he don't come over me. Ah, Master Ralph, it's a hard
thing to say one's own flesh and blood aint the thing, but the truth's
the truth to be sure, and, though it does hurt in the telling, that's no
reason it shouldn't be told.
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