Then the good woman climbed in over the wheel, settled her ample person on the seat and gathered up the reins, while the station-master stood smoothing the mare's mane, ready for a parting word of friendly gossip.
"Jacob pooty smart!" he asked, brushing a fly from Nancy's shoulder.
"Only middling," was the reply.

"He had a touch o' rheumatiz, that last spell of wet weather, and it seems to hang on, kind of.

Ketches him in the joints and the small of his back if he rises up suddin." "I know! I know!" replied the station-master, with eager interest.

"Jest like my spells ketches me; on'y I have it powerful bad acrost my shoulders, too.

I been kerryin' a potato in my pocket f'r over and above a week now, and I'm in hopes 't'll cure me." "A potato in your pocket!" exclaimed Dame Hartley.