Across The Plains | Page 8

head, like a taper on
a foggy night.
When I came a little more to myself, I found that there had sat down
beside me a very cheerful, rosy little German gentleman, somewhat
gone in drink, who was talking away to me, nineteen to the dozen, as
they say. I did my best to keep up the conversation; for it seemed to me
dimly as if something depended upon that. I heard him relate, among
many other things, that there were pickpockets on the train, who had
already robbed a man of forty dollars and a return ticket; but though I
caught the words, I do not think I properly understood the sense until
next morning; and I believe I replied at the time that I was very glad to
hear it. What else he talked about I have no guess; I remember a
gabbling sound of words, his profuse gesticulation, and his smile,
which was highly explanatory: but no more. And I suppose I must have
shown my confusion very plainly; for, first, I saw him knit his brows at

me like one who has conceived a doubt; next, he tried me in German,
supposing perhaps that I was unfamiliar with the English tongue; and
finally, in despair, he rose and left me. I felt chagrined; but my fatigue
was too crushing for delay, and, stretching myself as far as that was
possible upon the bench, I was received at once into a dreamless stupor.
The little German gentleman was only going a little way into the
suburbs after a DINER FIN, and was bent on entertainment while the
journey lasted. Having failed with me, he pitched next upon another
emigrant, who had come through from Canada, and was not one jot less
weary than myself. Nay, even in a natural state, as I found next
morning when we scraped acquaintance, he was a heavy,
uncommunicative man. After trying him on different topics, it appears
that the little German gentleman flounced into a temper, swore an oath
or two, and departed from that car in quest of livelier society. Poor little
gentleman! I suppose he thought an emigrant should be a rollicking,
free-hearted blade, with a flask of foreign brandy and a long, comical
story to beguile the moments of digestion.
THURSDAY. - I suppose there must be a cycle in the fatigue of
travelling, for when I awoke next morning, I was entirely renewed in
spirits and ate a hearty breakfast of porridge, with sweet milk, and
coffee and hot cakes, at Burlington upon the Mississippi. Another long
day's ride followed, with but one feature worthy of remark. At a place
called Creston, a drunken man got in. He was aggressively friendly, but,
according to English notions, not at all unpresentable upon a train. For
one stage he eluded the notice of the officials; but just as we were
beginning to move out of the next station, Cromwell by name, by came
the conductor. There was a word or two of talk; and then the official
had the man by the shoulders, twitched him from his seat, marched him
through the car, and sent him flying on to the track. It was done in three
motions, as exact as a piece of drill. The train was still moving slowly,
although beginning to mend her pace, and the drunkard got his feet
without a fall. He carried a red bundle, though not so red as his cheeks;
and he shook this menacingly in the air with one hand, while the other
stole behind him to the region of the kidneys. It was the first indication
that I had come among revolvers, and I observed it with some emotion.

The conductor stood on the steps with one hand on his hip, looking
back at him; and perhaps this attitude imposed upon the creature, for he
turned without further ado, and went off staggering along the track
towards Cromwell followed by a peal of laughter from the cars. They
were speaking English all about me, but I knew I was in a foreign land.
Twenty minutes before nine that night, we were deposited at the Pacific
Transfer Station near Council Bluffs, on the eastern bank of the
Missouri river. Here we were to stay the night at a kind of caravanserai,
set apart for emigrants. But I gave way to a thirst for luxury, separated
myself from my companions, and marched with my effects into the
Union Pacific Hotel. A white clerk and a coloured gentleman whom, in
my plain European way, I should call the boots, were installed behind a
counter like bank tellers. They took my name, assigned me a number,
and proceeded to deal with my packages. And here came the tug of war.
I wished to give up my