every day, from the
toothsome dainties of the train-boy Sullivan's basket, they would "eat
all they could hold." The elder Sullivan, aged eight, he of the
artistic temperament, here soared dizzily into the farthest ether of
romance. He had his uniform at home, at that very moment, and a cap with
"gold reading" on it--it read "Conductor" on one side, and "Candy" on
the other. Only--this veritably smacked of genius--the blue coat with
the gold buttons had been made too small for him, and he'd have to wait
until they sent him a larger size--"a No. 12," he said, with a careless,
unseeing glance at our group. This was a stroke that had nearly done for
one of us--but a moment's resistance and another of sober reflection
saved him. He flashed to me a look of scorn for the clumsy fabrication.

There was still a brakeman needed, it appeared,--a _good_ brakeman. The
Sullivans consulted importantly, wondering if "a good man" could by any
chance be found "around here." They named and rejected several possible
candidates--other boys that we knew. And they wondered again.
No--probably every one around here was afraid to leave home, or wouldn't
be strong enough.

I held my breath, perceiving at once, the villany on foot. They were
trying to lure one of us into a trap. They wished one of us to leap
forward with a glad, eager, artless shout--"_I'll_ be the other
brakeman!" At once they would jeer coarsely, slapping one another's
backs and affecting the utmost merriment that this one of us should have
been equal to so monstrous a pretension. This would last a long time.
They would take up other matters only for the sake of coming back to it
with sudden explosions of contemptuous mirth.

Happily, the one of us most liable to this ignominy remained unbelieving
to the bitter end; even did he pretend to a yawning sort of interest in
a book carelessly picked up. The Sullivans had been foiled at every
turn, and now we were relieved from the covert but not less pointed
insult of their presence.

Mrs. Delia, her morning's work done, came out dressed for church,
bidding me a briskly sad little "Good marnin', _Major!_" I responded
pleasantly, for in a way I liked Mrs. Sullivan, who came each day from
her bare little house under the hill to make a home for Solon and our
children. At least she was kind to them and kept them plump. That she
remained dismal under circumstances that seemed to me not to warrant it
was a detail of minor consequence.