 | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family |  |
OMNIBUS-RIDING.
'T is a rainy morning, and, health considered, we
think we 'll ride. The 'bus heaves in sight, and we look
anxiously through the dusty windows, to see a dense
packing of humanity, in one long lane that has no turning,
occupying the inside. The driver pulls up as we
wave our cane, — he has been watching us for some
distance, calculating on the chances of a summons, — and,
peering down from his perch, through the ticket-hole,
ascertains that there is room for one more. There
always is. We take heart at the announcement, and
mount the steps, while the door swings open to admit us.
“Calculated to hold twelve persons” beams upon us
from the front of the vehicle, whether nature in framing
the “persons” bore the 'bus-maker's limit in mind or
not. It must hold twelve, irrespective of size. There
are but eleven inside, and we make the twelfth, but
where to sit? Six lean “persons” occupy one side, and
five fat ones the other. Of course our place is with the
five, and they seem conscious of it, — they have read the
arbitrary inscription, — and crowd one another, and
squat their sides to the smallest squeezable limit to
admit us, and, just as the 'bus starts, we fall plump
between a very fiery-looking old gentleman, and a lady
of unromantic years, and biliously wicked-looking withal.
Something cracks in the old gentleman's pocket, and a
growl greets us from him, while, with half of our “person”
sensible of a sharp elbow, and the ejaculation “O,
Lord!” uttered in a tone between a prayer and a reproach.
Of course we 've a right there, for, is n't the
coach bound to hold twelve, and won't we give “one pull
for the right” before we 'll give it up? That 's a beautiful
face opposite, — a glimpse convinces us of this, —
but we cannot stare at her; good manners forbid it!
There is a glass beneath the driver's seat, and here the
pretty face in duplicate appears, and we gaze upon it
unnoted.
We are now reminded of the presence of the collector
of the tickets, who touches our shoulder, and looks
significantly without saying anything. He was never
known to say anything but twice in his life, it is said, —
once to inform a man in the 'bus that it was cold, and
again, in a confidential whisper, to hint that it was
unpleasant. We struggle to reach the pocket which
contains our ticket; but the mass that hems us in won't
move, and, in a spasmodic effort to entrap the card,
three buttons are sacrificed, and a bonnet disturbed in its
position. We laugh at some pleasant allusion of our
own about clumsiness; but the laugh appears only upon one
side, and we relapse into silence, and look in the glass
beneath the driver's seat. Thank Heaven! the big man
here pulls the string, and sturdily tramples over quiescent
toes in his egress. Then the lady with the carpet-bag
pulls vehemently, in a vain effort to jerk the driver
through, and she gets out. Then another, and another,
until all are gone but us, — the pretty girl last, — and
we are captain of the ship, all the difficulties of our
have room. What do we care now about how many the
'bus will hold? We snap our fingers at the insulting
rule that would curtail humanity, and gaze upon the
other inscription, that enjoins the pull for the right;
then pull the string magnificently, the coach stops, and
we descend among the pedestrians, not a whit inflated by
our momentary exaltation.
| Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family | |