About twelve o’clock we pull up at a desolate-looking village; people come out of their cottages, pigs and children tumbling one over the other, to stare at this sudden irruption of humanity, at this hour when no respectable train is expected to be on the road. We alight, and are marshalled through numerous tumble-down cottages to a dilapidated hotel--a cross between an Irish shanty and a low class refreshment bar. Here we get a meal, or at least a substitute for one; we are all too hungry to pay much attention to the quality of the food, provided we get enough of it. The landlady, in large hoop earrings and a draggled print gown, received us at the stair-head, and with apologies for the poor entertainment she is able to afford us, on the ground of the exceptional nature of the occasion; it is the very first time a train has come to a standstill in this primitive part of the country.
There is a general clatter and chatter; two or three small negroes flutter round like a flock of frightened geese; everybody seems to get in everybody else’s way--they tumble over each other, tumble over us. There is a general scrimmage and rush for such eatables as are here attainable; one gets a cup of steaming coffee while the milk vanishes in the distance; another is refreshed with a bowl of sugar; one gets proud possession of a yard of corn bread, another grasps a dish of rancid butter--but the difficulty is getting the two together; fresh eggs are plentiful, and are piled like mountains of white cannon balls upon the table. A trio of adventurous gentlemen make a raid upon the kitchen, and reappear proudly bearing their spoils aloft; by degrees things shake down and we manage to fill the vacuum within us. Our damaged baggage master, with his dislocated shoulder bound up by amateur hands, is cheerful, albeit in pain, and receives the attentions of the ladies with great placidity; he has to be fed like a big baby, for he can’t use his right hand, and his left is sprained and swollen. Everybody is laughing, chatting, and grumbling all in a breath; as for us we never enjoyed a thoroughly British growl at so small a price--twenty cents a head!
On our way to the station we meet a wicked-looking little Topsy, with a huge brown jug of new milk, just fresh from the cow; we speedily relieve her of this responsibility, and in the twinkling of an eye change the stone jug and its contents into a shower of “nickels.”