Philander Keeler, or some
member of that mysterious family, to convey me to Wallencamp.
It seemed as though the train had had time to travel the whole
interminable length of the Cape, and plunge off into the ocean beyond,
when, in fact, we were just entering upon that peculiar body of land at
West Wallen.
There was no one there to meet me. The little _depot_ was held by a
strange night brigade of boys and girls, playing "blind-man's buff."
They shouted like cannibals, and bore down on all opposing objects with
resistless force. I did not attempt an entrance. A rough, good-natured
looking man stood on the platform outside.
I put on my glasses (I was sadly and unaffectedly near-sighted), and
having further assured myself of his seeming honesty, inquired if there
was such a place as Kedarville in the vicinity.
"Waal, no, miss, thar' ain't," said he, with a noonday smile, which
informed me that there was yet something to hope for. "Thar's no
_Kedarville_ that I know on. Thar's a Wallencamp some miles up yender.
We don't often tackle no Sunday go-to-meeting names on to it, but I
reckon, maybe, it's the same you're a-lookin' for."
He had spoken with such startling indefiniteness of the distance that I
asked him how far it was to Wallencamp.
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