The Prodigal Imp
"My mamma is at home," responded the Imp with dignity, and went on.
"Humph!" said the brakeman, following him up the steps and giving him a kindly shove—the steps were far apart and the Imp's legs were short. "What's your name? Ain't anybody along with you?"
The Imp was horribly frightened: the hissing, pounding engine, the bell that clanged, the bustling people, all woke him to a sense of his strange position, and for a moment he heartily wished that someone was along with him. Then the chuckle from the hammock rang in his ears, and he stiffened, and faced the brakeman with all the dignity and haughtiness of his grandfather, who had publicly rebuked the Governor of Connecticut for a want of courtesy, and said:
"I am Perry Scott Stafford, and I am going to New York by myself."
"Oh!" said the brakeman, and went on in silence, surprised, but quite convinced.
The Imp settled back in the red plush seat, and the train pulled out. It was done! Nevermore should he see the gravel path and the library and the open fire and the stable and his mother! Oh!
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