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clodhoppers on the wharf should never imagine
that this was the tirst time I had been aboard a
steamboat.
Soon that skin-and-bone Andersen, the
storekeeper, got on the boat, and then came
lit-tle Magnus, the telegraph messenger, jogging
along. Magnus is really a dwarf. He is forty
years old and doesn’t reach any higher than my
shoulder; but he has an exceedingly large old
face. He clambered up on a bench. He has
such short legs that when he sits down his legs
stick straight out into the air, just as tiny little
children’s do when they sit down. Then came
Mrs. Tellefsen, in a French shawl, and
dread-fully vvarm and worried. “ When the whistle
blew the first time, I was still in my
night-clothes,” she confided to me.
The whistle blew the third time. I smiled
condescendingly down to Ingeborg, our maid,
who stood upon the wharf. I woukln’t for a
good deal be in her shoes and have to turn back
and go home again now. Far up the Street
ap-peared a man and woman shouting and calling
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