One August morning, in one of its quietest curves among the hills, there
was a fat old horse, standing on it, sniffing up the cool air: pure air,
it is there, so cool and rare that you can detect even the faint scent
of the wild-grape blossoms or the buttercups in it in spring. The wagon
to which the horse was fastened had no business there in the cedar-hills
or slow-going road; it belonged to town, every inch, from hub to
cover,--was square-built, shiningly clean, clear-lettered as
Philadelphia itself.
"That completes the practical whole," said Andy Fawcett, polishing a tin
measure, and putting it on the front seat of the wagon, and then
surveying the final effect.
Andy was part-owner of it: the yellow letters on the sides were, "_A.
Fawcett & Co. Milk_." It was very early,--gray, soggy clouds keeping
back the dawn,--but light enough for Andy to see that his shoes, which
he had blacked late last night, were bright, and his waistcoat, etc.,
"all taut."
"I like the sailor lingo," he said, curling his moustache, and turning
over his pink shirt-collar. "They've a loose dash about 'em. It must go
far with the girls."
Then he looked at the wagon again, and at a pinchbeck watch he carried.
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