The Man from Maine.
by J. D. Ellsworth.
AS a Westerner, I was amused by the discreet sinfulness of Boston; but when business called me to Maine, our down-east sister, whose temperate example is always held before our eyes, I felt that I was about to set foot on the stepping-stone of heaven. To provide against the serpent that must inevitably haunt such an Eden, I filled my pocket flask with the standard Western remedy for snake bites.
The train left the Union Station at nine in the morning, and anticipating a stupid ride I went into the smoking-car to enjoy a cigar and read my newspaper. The car was fitted up with mahogany card tables and stationary cribbage boards. In the seats in front of me were three traveling men.
"Play euchre?" said one of them, looking toward a lean, lanky stranger.
"Does it cost anything?"
"Not a cent."
"Well, then, I guess I'll come in," and he opened himself like a jack-knife and strolled to his place. His thin, freckled face looked as if it had been carved with a chisel, and his clothes were economically cut to save cloth. Altogether, he had an air of Yankee thrift that might suggest to a cynical observer that he had taken the rear seat to save the interest on his fare while the conductor was making his way through the car. There was a chill about him that suggested a diet of ice-water, and when he cut the cards I half expected that they would be frost-bitten by his touch.
As the train rushed over bridges and through suburban cities the novelty of my surroundings so engrossed my attention that I did not notice the card-players again until I heard the lean stranger say:
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