Chapter 28
The folks of Faraway have been carefully if rudely pictured, but thelook of my own person, since I grew to the stature of manhood, I haveleft wholly to the imagination of the reader. I will wager he knew longsince what manner of man I was and has measured me to the fraction of aninch, and knows even the colour of my hair and eyes from having been solong in my company. If not--well, I shall have to write him a letter.
When Uncle Eb and I took the train for New York that summer day in 1860,some fifteen years after we came down Paradise Road with the dog andwagon and pack basket, my head, which, in that far day, came only tothe latitude of his trouser pocket, had now mounted six inches abovehis own. That is all I can say here on that branch of my subject. Iwas leaving to seek my fortune in the big city; Uncle Eb was off for aholiday and to see Hope and bring her home for a short visit. I rememberwith what sadness I looked back that morning at mother and father asthey stood by the gate slowly waving their handkerchiefs. Our home atlast was emptied of its young, and even as they looked the shadow of oldage must have fallen suddenly before them. I knew how they would go backinto that lonely room and how, while the clock went on with its ticking,Elizabeth would sit down and cover her face a moment, while David wouldmake haste to take up his chores.
We sat in silence a long time after the train was off, a mighty sadnessholding our tongues. Uncle Eb, who had never ridden a long journey onthe cars before, had put on his grand suit of broadcloth. The day washot and dusty, and before we had gone far he was sadly soiled. But asuit never gave him any worry, once it was on. He sat calmly, holdinghis knee in his hands and looking out of the open window, a squint inhis eyes that stood for some high degree of interest in the scenery.
'What do you think of this country?' I enquired.
'Looks purty fair,' said he, as he brushed his face with hishandkerchief and coughed to clear his throat of the dust, 'but 'tain'tquite so pleasant to the taste as some other parts o' the country. Iruther liked the flavour of Saint Lawrence all through, but Jefferson isa leetle gritty.'
He put down the window as he spoke.
'A leetle tobaccer'll improve it some,' he added, as his hand went downfor the old silver box. 'The way these cars dew rip along! Consarned ifit ain't like flyin'! Kind o' makes me feel like a bird.'
The railroad was then not the familiar thing it is now in the northcountry. The bull in the fields had not yet come to an understanding ofits rights, and was frequently tempted into argument with a locomotive.Bill Fountain, who came out of a back township, one day had even tiedhis faithful hound to the rear platform.
Our train came to a long stop for wood and water near midday, and thenwe opened the lunch basket that mother had given us.
'Neighbour,' said a solemn-faced man, who sat in front of us, 'do youthink the cars are ag'in the Bible? D'you think a Christian orter rideon 'em?'
'Sartin,' said Uncle Eb. 'Less the constable's after him--then I thinkhe orter be on a balky hoss.'
'Wife'n I hes talked it over a good deal,' said the man. 'Some says it'sag'in the Bible. The minister 'at preaches over 'n our neighbourhoodsays if God hed wanted men t' fly he'd g'in 'em wings.'
'S'pose if he'd ever wanted 'm t' skate he'd hed 'em born with skateson?' said Uncle Eb.
'Danno,' said the man. 'It behooves us all to be careful. The Bible says"Go not after new things."'
'My friend,' said Uncle Eb, between bites of a doughnut, 'I don'care what I ride in so long as 'tain't a hearse. I want sumthin' at'scomfortable an' purty middlin' spry. It'll do us good up here t' gitjerked a few hunderd miles an' back ev'ry leetle while. Keep our j'intslimber. We'll live longer fer it, an' thet'll please God sure--cuz Idon't think he's hankerin' fer our society--not a bit. Don' make nodifference t' him whuther we ride 'n a spring wagon er on the cars solong's we're right side up 'n movin'. We need more steam; we're too dumslow. Kind o' think a leetle more steam in our religion wouldn't hurt usa bit. It's purty fur behind.'
We got to Albany in the evening, just in time for the night boat. UncleEb was a sight in his dusty broadcloth, when we got off the cars, andI know my appearance could not have been prepossessing. Once we wereaboard the boat and had dusted our clothes and bathed our hands andfaces we were in better spirits.
'Consarn it!' said Uncle Eb, as we left the washroom, 'le's have a durngood supper. I'll stan' treat.'
'Comes a leetle bit high,' he said, as he paid the bill, 'but I don'care if it does. 'Fore we left I says t' myself, "Uncle Eb," saysI, "you go right in fer a good time an' don' ye count the pennies.Everybody's a right t' be reckless once in seventy-five year."'
We went to our stateroom a little after nine. I remember the berths hadnot been made up, and removing our boots and coats we lay down uponthe bare mattresses. Even then I had a lurking fear that we might beviolating some rule of steamboat etiquette. When I went to New Yorkbefore I had dozed all night in the big cabin.
A dim light came through the shuttered door that opened upon thedinning-saloon where the rattle of dishes for a time put away thepossibility of sleep.
'I'll be awful glad t' see Hope,' said Uncle Eb, as he lay gaping.
'Guess I'll be happier to see her than she will to see me,' I said.
'What put that in yer head?' Uncle Eb enquired.
''Fraid we've got pretty far apart,' said I.
'Shame on ye, Bill,' said the old gentleman. 'If thet's so ye ain't doneright. Hedn't orter let a girl like thet git away from ye--th' ain'tanother like her in this world.'
'I know it' I said' 'but I can't help it. Somebody's cut me out UncleEb.'
''Tain't so,' said he emphatically. 'Ye want t' prance right up t' her.'
'I'm not afraid of any woman,' I said, with a great air of bravery, 'butif she don't care for me I ought not to throw myself at her.'
'Jerusalem!' said Uncle Eb, rising up suddenly, 'what hev I gone an'done?'
He jumped out of his berth quickly and in the dim light I could see himreaching for several big sheets of paper adhering to the back of hisshirt and trousers. I went quickly to his assistance and beganstripping off the broadsheets which, covered with some strongly adhesivesubstance, had laid a firm hold upon him. I rang the bell and ordered alight.
'Consam it all! what be they--plasters?' said Uncle Eb, quite out ofpatience.
'Pieces of brown paper, covered with--West India molasses, I shouldthink,' said I.
'West Injy molasses!' he exclaimed. 'By mighty! That makes me hotter'n apancake. What's it on the bed fer?'
'To catch flies,' I answered.
'An' ketched me,' said Uncle Eb, as he flung the sheet he was examininginto a corner. 'My extry good suit' too!'
He took off his trousers, then, holding them up to the light.
'They're sp'ilt,' said he mournfully. 'Hed 'em fer more'n ten year,too.'
'That's long enough,' I suggested.
'Got kind o' 'tached to 'em,' he said, looking down at them and rubbinghis chin thoughtfully. Then we had a good laugh.
'You can put on the other suit,' I suggested, 'and when we get to thecity we'll have these fixed.'
'Leetle sorry, though,' said he, 'cuz that other suit don' look reelgrand. This here one has been purty--purty scrumptious in its day--if Ido say it.'
'You look good enough in anything that's respectable,' I said.
'Kind o' wanted to look a leetle extry good, as ye might say,' saidUncle Eb, groping in his big carpet-bag. 'Hope, she's terrible proud,an' if they should hev a leetle fiddlin' an' dancin' some night we'dwant t' be as stylish as any on em. B'lieve I'll go'n git me a spang,bran' new suit, anyway, 'fore we go up t' Fuller's.'
As we neared the city we both began feeling a bit doubtful as to whetherwe were quite ready for the ordeal.
'I ought to,' I said. 'Those I'm wearing aren't quite stylish enough,I'm afraid.'
'They're han'some,' said Uncle Eb, looking up over his spectacles, 'butmebbe they ain't just as splendid as they'd orter be. How much money didDavid give ye?'
br /> 'One hundred and fifty dollars,' I said, thinking it a very grand sumindeed.
''Tain't enough,' said Uncle Eb, bolting up at me again. 'Leastways notif ye're goin' t' hev a new suit. I want ye t' be spick an' span.'
He picked up his trousers then, and took out his fat leather wallet.
'Lock the door,' he whispered.
'Pop goes the weasel!' he exclaimed, good-naturedly, and then he begancounting the bills.
'I'm not going to take any more of your money, Uncle Eb,' I said.
'Tut, tut!' said he, 'don't ye try t' interfere. What d' ye thinkthey'll charge in the city fer a reel, splendid suit?'
He stopped and looked up at me.
'Probably as much as fifty dollars,' I answered.
'Whew-w-w!' he whistled. 'Patty steep! It is sartin.'
'Let me go as I am,' said I. 'Time enough to have a new suit when I'veearned it.'
'Wall,' he said, as he continued counting, 'I guess you've earnt italready. Ye've studied hard an' tuk first honours an' yer goin' wherefolks are purty middlin' proud'n haughty. I want ye t' be a reg'lar highstepper, with a nice, slick coat. There,' he whispered, as he handed methe money, 'take thet! An' don't ye never tell 'at I g'in it t' ye.'
I could not speak for a little while, as I took the money, for thinkingof the many, many things this grand old man had done for me.
'Do ye think these boots'll do?' he asked, as he held up to the lightthe pair he had taken off in the evening.
'They look all right,' I said.
'Ain't got no decent squeak to 'em now, an' they seem t' look kind o'clumsy. How're your'n?' he asked.
I got them out from under the berth and we inspected them carefullydeciding in the end they would pass muster.
The steward had made up our berths, when he came, and lit our room forus. Our feverish discussion of attire had carried us far past midnight,when we decided to go to bed.
'S'pose we musn't talk t' no strangers there 'n New York,' said UncleEb, as he lay down. 'I've read 'n the Tribune how they'll purtend t' befriends an' then grab yer money an' run like Sam Hill. If I meet any o'them fellers they're goin' t' find me purty middlin' poor comp'ny.'
We were up and on deck at daylight, viewing the Palisades. The lonelyfeeling of an alien hushed us into silence as we came to the noisy andthickening river craft at the upper end of the city. Countless windowpanes were shining in the morning sunlight. This thought was in my mindthat somewhere in the innumerable host on either side was the one dearerto me than any other. We enquired our way at the dock and walked toFrench's Hotel, on Printing House Square. After breakfast we went andordered all the grand new things we had planned to get. They would notbe ready for two days, and after talking it over we decided to go andmake a short call. Hope, who had been up and looking for us a longtime, gave us a greeting so hearty we began to get the first feeling ofcomfort since landing. She was put out about our having had breakfast, Iremember, and said we must have our things brought there at once.
'I shall have to stay at the hotel awhile,' I said, thinking of the newclothes.
'Why,' said Mrs Fuller, 'this girl has been busy a week fixing yourrooms and planning for you. We could not hear of your going elsewhere.It would be downright ingratitude to her.'
A glow of red came into the cheeks of Hope that made me ashamed of myremark. I thought she looked lovelier in her pretty blue morning gown,covering a broad expanse of crinoline, than ever before.
'And you've both got to come and hear me sing tonight at the church,'said she. 'I wouldn't have agreed to sing if I had not thought you wereto be here.'
We made ourselves at home, as we were most happy to do, and thatafternoon I went down town to present to Mr Greeley the letter thatDavid Brower had given me.