He often
made a dime by carrying some one's satchel from the station to the hotel.
The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, came
down from his office on the second floor of the station building and saw
Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the clod in his
coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken it out of his
pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in his hand.
"Hello, Pop!" said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was
hanging heavily. "What have you there?"
"Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o'
mud."
He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe.
The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro
attracted a group of lazy fellows,--the driver of an express wagon, the man
who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to passengers
on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, who solicited
patronage from the hotels.
"Why, Pop," said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, "this lump
looks as though it contained gold.
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