resembled nothing so much as a circus wagon, its low roof, long hull and multiwindowed cabin and shutters all painted up in promiscuous shades of red, green, blue and yellow, a floating advertisement for the marvels of the watery way. Across the bow and stern, bold letters of flaking gilt announced the name
Croesus,
“the finest, fastest craft abroad in either direction upon the Grand Western, bar none, guaranteed,” boasted the owner and captain, one Erastus Whelkington, a stubby, sun-toasted man finified to packet master nonpareil in a brass-button broadcoat, flowered sarsenet waistcoat with matching neckcloth, yellow small-clothes, prunella-topped morocco boots and a high, silky, gray castor with a picture of the
Croesus
itself passing through Lock 49 painted on the front. In appearance, a small rabbity creature of no discernible strength, his grip was sufficient to steer the tolerant father and his accompanying son deftly leeward of the increasingly frantic exhortations of a rival captain declaiming in a belligerent, high-pitched voice the manifold virtues of his own particular boat from the moment Thatcher and Liberty alighted, somewhat stupefied by the rollicking experience, from the Delphi–Schenectady omnibus.
“Pay no heed to the false appeals of that mud-chunking malefactor,” advised Captain Whelkington, drawing Thatcher ever nearer the oriental fragrance of his breath. “His vessel leaks, his mules are lame, his old woman went mad—tossed her last two spratlings plunk into the canal the minute she was done with ’em. Told the sheriff their cries weren’t quite human, said they put her in mind of rutting tabbies.”
“Whelkington!” roared the man who had pursued the captain and his prospective passengers out into the middle of the bustling street where all were now engaged in dodging drays, runabouts, gigs, dog carts, coaches, carryalls and solitary mounted travelers from the staid to the picturesque, while trying also to avoid, not always successfully, the plentiful clumps, some still smoking, of horse manure. “You ingling son of a bitch! I’m about full up of your pestiferous lies, your gyppo shecooneries. You smell bad, and frankly, sir, I can no longer tolerate your brazen hooking of my rightful passengers.”
Captain Whelkington halted midstride as if struck in the back with a brick. “Beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, politely conducting Thatcher and Liberty to a spot in the shade of Corcoran’s Saloon, whose veranda posts had been chewed halfway through by horses left tethered too long outside.
“Now,” Whelkington exclaimed, turning on his competitor in a high choler, “this is the second occasion you have dared accost me in a public thoroughfare, not only embarrassing me personally but threatening my livelihood as well. I’ll not brook your interference a day more. Let’s settle this matter here and now.” And he began unbuttoning his coat.
“I’ve whipped villains meaner than you from Troy to Buffalo, and it will certainly afford me much satisfaction to fix your flint, Captain Whelkington, once and for all.” And he began to unbutton
his
coat.
Some people stopped to watch the trouble, some paused and moved on, but it wasn’t long until a sizable crowd had collected and traffic in the street was calmly parting around the two enraged packet captains.
“By the way, Captain Mumford?” Whelkington had removed his fancy hat and was wiping his forehead with a yellow bandanna. “Reside in this fair city, do you not?”
“Yes, Captain Whelkington, you know I do.” He folded his coat over a hitching rail and began rolling up his sleeves.
“Took a new missus recently, so I hear.”
“Yes, sir, indeed I did.”
“Comely woman, I expect.”
“Yes, Captain Whelkington, she surely is. Why do you ask?”
“Because I aim to fuck her from stem to stern soon as I get done tanning your scrawny hide.”
The punch would have caught a quick man square in the jaw, but
Croesus,
“the finest, fastest craft abroad in either direction upon the Grand Western, bar none, guaranteed,” boasted the owner and captain, one Erastus Whelkington, a stubby, sun-toasted man finified to packet master nonpareil in a brass-button broadcoat, flowered sarsenet waistcoat with matching neckcloth, yellow small-clothes, prunella-topped morocco boots and a high, silky, gray castor with a picture of the
Croesus
itself passing through Lock 49 painted on the front. In appearance, a small rabbity creature of no discernible strength, his grip was sufficient to steer the tolerant father and his accompanying son deftly leeward of the increasingly frantic exhortations of a rival captain declaiming in a belligerent, high-pitched voice the manifold virtues of his own particular boat from the moment Thatcher and Liberty alighted, somewhat stupefied by the rollicking experience, from the Delphi–Schenectady omnibus.
“Pay no heed to the false appeals of that mud-chunking malefactor,” advised Captain Whelkington, drawing Thatcher ever nearer the oriental fragrance of his breath. “His vessel leaks, his mules are lame, his old woman went mad—tossed her last two spratlings plunk into the canal the minute she was done with ’em. Told the sheriff their cries weren’t quite human, said they put her in mind of rutting tabbies.”
“Whelkington!” roared the man who had pursued the captain and his prospective passengers out into the middle of the bustling street where all were now engaged in dodging drays, runabouts, gigs, dog carts, coaches, carryalls and solitary mounted travelers from the staid to the picturesque, while trying also to avoid, not always successfully, the plentiful clumps, some still smoking, of horse manure. “You ingling son of a bitch! I’m about full up of your pestiferous lies, your gyppo shecooneries. You smell bad, and frankly, sir, I can no longer tolerate your brazen hooking of my rightful passengers.”
Captain Whelkington halted midstride as if struck in the back with a brick. “Beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, politely conducting Thatcher and Liberty to a spot in the shade of Corcoran’s Saloon, whose veranda posts had been chewed halfway through by horses left tethered too long outside.
“Now,” Whelkington exclaimed, turning on his competitor in a high choler, “this is the second occasion you have dared accost me in a public thoroughfare, not only embarrassing me personally but threatening my livelihood as well. I’ll not brook your interference a day more. Let’s settle this matter here and now.” And he began unbuttoning his coat.
“I’ve whipped villains meaner than you from Troy to Buffalo, and it will certainly afford me much satisfaction to fix your flint, Captain Whelkington, once and for all.” And he began to unbutton
his
coat.
Some people stopped to watch the trouble, some paused and moved on, but it wasn’t long until a sizable crowd had collected and traffic in the street was calmly parting around the two enraged packet captains.
“By the way, Captain Mumford?” Whelkington had removed his fancy hat and was wiping his forehead with a yellow bandanna. “Reside in this fair city, do you not?”
“Yes, Captain Whelkington, you know I do.” He folded his coat over a hitching rail and began rolling up his sleeves.
“Took a new missus recently, so I hear.”
“Yes, sir, indeed I did.”
“Comely woman, I expect.”
“Yes, Captain Whelkington, she surely is. Why do you ask?”
“Because I aim to fuck her from stem to stern soon as I get done tanning your scrawny hide.”
The punch would have caught a quick man square in the jaw, but
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