“Me, Elsie Macumber, the daughter of a full time engineer on the Pennsy railroad, marry the likes of you, Sam Dobinski? You what’s only a hostler down at the round house! Isn’t it fine nerve you’re possessin’.” “Because I’m a hostler y’ won’t marry me, eh?” Dobinski punctuated his sentence with a large stream of tobacco juice, as if he wanted to lay all the dust about the signal tower where they were standing. “Because you got fine black hair and pretty black eyes and a hell of a pride you won’t marry a Polack like me. Because you got a pretty face you think you can marry any man on the division, and so you snaps your fingers at a hostler. Tell me once, what was your father when he first we…
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