On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

<h3><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</SPAN> <br/>I bargain for eggs</h3> <p class="toclink"><SPAN href="#CONTENTS">TOC</SPAN></p> <div class="poembox"> <div class="stanzaleft"> <div class="verse0">This day Dame Nature seemed in love:</div> <div class="verse0">The lusty sap began to move;</div> <div class="verse0">Fresh juice did stir th' embracing Vines,</div> <div class="verse0"><i>And birds had drawn their Valentines</i>.</div> </div> <cite class="citeright">—The Complete Angler.</cite></div> <p>It was noon when I started for Dalton, three miles away, and night before we arrived there. The mud oozed into my overshoes, and I made Mac carry me and my grip. I delivered a lecture, whose receipts about defrayed my expenses, and was presented a pair of rubber boots by a man frank enough to admit the boots didn't fit him.</p> <p>We spent the Sabbath in Wooster. While strolling down its main street with my dog, I suddenly came upon a captive coyote, which defied Don, who ran off in a fright. That monster canine fell considerably in my estimation. I wondered what he would do when our camps on the plains were surrounded with a hundred of these yelping beasts.</p> <p>Wooster, rather a pretty town, is the seat of a university. The word "seat" reminds me that I needed a pair of trousers. The rainy season had set in, and I wanted a reserve pair. Otherwise, when my only pair got soaked I must go to bed until they dried. I walked into a Jewish clothier's, and, selecting a pair of corduroys, inquired, "How much?"</p> <p>"Two dollahs ond a hollaf," said the merchant. He informed me that in Mansfield the same "pants" would cost $3, in Fort Wayne $5, in Chicago $7, etc. I said that according to his way of reckoning I could have purchased the same kind of trousers in Dalton for $2, in Massillon for $1, and in Canton for a song. My argument staggered him, but he soon recovered, and showed me a great colored picture, representing a pair of corduroys, one leg chained to an elephant, the other hooked to a locomotive, and both powers working in opposite directions to part those wonderful trousers.</p> <p>"Just vot you vant vor riding a jockoss; can't bull abart; vy, my dear sir, it's a bargain." That was a strong argument; I bought the "pants."</p> <p>Passing on through Jeromeville and Mifflin, we reached Mansfield, the home of Senator Sherman; and sixteen miles beyond Galion. That lovely spring day, with the birds chirping merrily in the trees, my pilgrimage seemed unusually irksome. Next day was my birthday, and I resolved to make it a holiday.</p> <p>I enjoyed a day of recreation, so did my donkey and dog, and in the evening delivered a lecture on my travels before a campaign league at its club house.</p> <p>On Friday morning I started for the town of Marion, twenty-six miles away. Many citizens of Galion assembled to see us off. Mac and Don were impatient for the journey, and amused the crowd by pulling each other's whiskers. I had boasted of having trained Mac A'Rony to follow me. When I set out with a wave of my hat and a beckon to my partner, he responded promptly, and for some distance verified my boasts. He never before had acted so tractable. Suddenly, a cheer sounded in the distance, and, turning, I beheld that asinine rascal making back to town on a hop-skip-and-jump. How the crowd did yell! It was a circus for them. Mac certainly had rested too long and eaten too many oats. The only time I got ahead of him was when I photographed him. I did not upbraid him, but when I readjusted my scattered belongings and whirled the whip over his head, he moved forward with utmost humility.</p> <p>At Caledonia, I took advantage of the farmers' market day and sold a large number of photos at a good price. I could not appear anywhere on the street without some rural stranger stopping me to shake hands and purchase a chromo. Saturday evening I lectured to a crowded house.</p> <p>It was 4:30 P. M. Sunday before I started to Kenton, twenty-seven miles beyond. When nearly there, I passed a small farm whose rural incumbent came to the fence to question me.</p> <p>"Goin' ter show to-night?" he inquired.</p> <p>"Nope," I answered, and kept Mac A'Rony moving.</p> <p>"Hold a minute!—Be ye travelin' er goin' somewhere?" the man persisted, as he leaned over the fence-rail. He interested me.</p> <p>"When you see people walking," I returned, bringing my donkey to halt, "you can take it for granted, they are going somewhere."</p> <p>The lonesome-looking farmer was the first I had met who was neither busy at work nor whittling. Gray locks fell wantonly over his ears. His faded coat, blue overalls and felt boots exhibited signs of a persistent conflict with farm implements, hooking cows, kicking horses, and a rich clayey soil. A cow and two hogs eyed my donkey and dog with contempt through the bars of the barnyard fence. I observed that all the buildings, including the house, were of logs. The man, judging from his property, didn't have a dollar in the world, but had great expectations. He asked if I had any books to sell. I had one, a copy of a volume I had published, several of which I had sold on my journey at a good price. I had lost fifteen valuable minutes talking with the man, and resolved to get even. While wondering what I could take in exchange for the book, a hen cackled.</p> <p>"Certainly. I have a book to sell," I said.</p> <p>"How much is it?"</p> <p>"Dollar and a half."</p> <p>"I'd buy it," said the farmer, longingly, "but I hain't got the price."</p> <p>"Have you got any eggs?" I asked.</p> <p>"Dozens of 'em. How many kin ye suck at a sittin'?"</p> <p>"I don't wish to suck them; I want them to sell," I replied. "How much do you ask a dozen?"</p> <p>"Six cents," he answered.</p> <p>"Well," I said, "I will trade the book for ten dozen. Is that a bargain? It looks like a cinch for you."</p> <p>"I meant a book about yer travels t' San Francisco," he explained, as he looked far away.</p> <p>"Well, that's just what it is," I returned, bound to make a sale, or die in the attempt. "Tells all about them: how robbers shot at me in York State, bull chased me down a well in Pennsylvania, dog worried me up a tree in Illinois, cowboys rescued me from Indians in the Rocky Mountains, grizzly bear hugged—"</p> <p>"Whew," ejaculated the man. "Thet's what I want. Ye got yer book aout purty soon. Wait till I go and fetch th' eggs." And the apparently ignorant man disappeared, soon to re-appear with a paper sack full of hen fruit.</p> <p>"Fresh?" I inquired, as I tied the fragile bundle to the saddle-horn.</p> <p>"Couldn't be fresher," was the positive answer. "Some laid terday, some yisterday, but most on 'em ter-morrer." Then observing my arched brows, he added, "Yaas—yer thunk I was a know-nuthin', and I let yer think so, 'cause yer need 'couragement. And I say agin, most on 'em was laid ter-morrer, and th' best on 'em is rooster eggs."</p> <p>I delivered the book, feeling the farmer had somewhat the better of me after all, and came to the conclusion that because a man looks primitive, and lives in primitive style, he is not necessarily of primitive intellect.</p> <p>Mac joined in a pleasant adieu to Mr. Bosh, and we sauntered on, I, behind, deeply absorbed in thought. We hadn't proceeded a half mile, however, before Mac shied at a bunch of hay, and ran plumb against a rail-fence; in a jiffy that jackass looked like an egg-nog. There is no word coined to express my eggs-ass-peration.</p> <p>When I caught the scapegrace, it required a half hour to make him and the saddle look the least respectable. I stopped at the next farm house, where a windmill supplied me with the water to wash the outfit, and I signed a pledge never to have anything to do with shell games of any kind. They always get the better of you.</p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />