"Well, Morrison got on the hand car."
"I rode on the hand car once," said the boy.
"Shut up!" ordered the woman. Her husband stopped again in the search to
glare at the offender.
"Come on, find that shirt for me," said Tom. He was talking with one eye on
the door, fearing the entrance of someone who would spoil his story. "The
agent got on the hand car and went a piece down the track. Pretty soon he
came back a-flying. 'The bridge is on fire!' he yelled. So we got on the
hand car, and went down to the bridge. There the passenger train stood,
with all the passengers and the train crew fighting the fire. They were
trying to put it out so the train could get across. Can't you find it?"
This last to the old man.
"We don't sell many shirts," he answered. "Don't pay. Most of the people
makes 'em 'emselves. Have we got any shirts, Mary?"
"I ain't never seen any," she replied. "I bin here twenty years."
"Then sell me one of yours," Tom said.
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Well...."
"If you won't sell me a shirt, I can't waste my time here talking." Tom
started impatiently towards the door.
"Here, young man," said the woman, "you come back here with me. I reckon we
can find something for you.
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