He blew his whistle to tell her he was waiting, but
said nothing. When she was quite near the steamer, a third woman
turned into the path, bound, too, for the landing. I looked on in
some fear lest the steamboat man should lose his temper at length.
But not he. It was only when a fourth and last woman appeared like
a whirling speck in the distance, with the three aboard making
frantic signals to her to hurry, that he showed signs of impatience.
"Couldn't she," he said, with some asperity, as she flounced aboard,
"couldn't she get here sooner?"
[Illustration: The Village Express.]
"No," she said, "I couldn't. Didn't you see me run?" And he rang
the bell to start the boat.
Time to wait! In New York I have seen men, in the days before the
iron gates were put on the ferry-boats, jump when the boat was yet
a yard from the landing and run as if their lives depended on it;
then, meeting an acquaintance in the street, stop and chat ten
minutes with him about nothing. How much farther did they get than
these? When all Denmark was torn up last summer by a strike that
involved three-fourths of the working population and extended
through many months, to the complete blocking of all industries,
not a blow was struck or an ill word spoken during all the time,
determined as both sides were.
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