“Very well, watch for it. Whenever you see it coming, run and tell us, and we’ll give you the beer.”
In less than half an hour, sure enough, we received the welcome intelligence that the boat was coming; and, giving the boy his beer, we hurried down to the landing, and reached it as the little steamer came up. We went aboard, and paid our fare to Detroit—another net loss of two dollars—and she soon moved on after the St. Louis. But we soon saw, with sinking hearts, that her speed was not equal to that of the propeller.
When we reached Lake St. Clair—a lake as round as a dollar, (or the city of Boston,) and twenty-five miles in diameter—we fancied we could see the St. Louis just sinking beneath the southern horizon. If we did, we never saw her again—at least I never did. When we reached Detroit, she had been gone half an hour. My trunk was there, but my other articles were clearly forfeited.
My companion and I got on the ferry-boat, went over to Windsor, Canada, just opposite Detroit, and inquired when the first train would depart for Buffalo. We were informed that an express-train would go at seven. He determined to go, and did so, no doubt, arriving at Buffalo a dozen hours in advance of the propeller. I have never heard of him since. I told him, when we parted, to go to my state-room when he should reach the propeller, and take possession of my chess-board, et cetera, remarking that I “willed” them to him; and I presume that he did so.
The city of Detroit, where I remained a week, is about the size of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and is the largest city in Michigan. It was there that Hull surrendered to the British, during the war of 1812; and it was there that the Fenians crossed into Canada and frightened the Canadians in 1866. So much for its historical importance. Its sobriquet is, “The City of the Straits.” Its location on the Detroit river—which is, more properly, a strait, connecting Lake St. Clair with Lake Erie—gives it this name. Detroit is a French word for strait.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Smith in search of his Uncle.
FROM Detroit, I went, by railroad, to Toledo, Ohio, distant eighty or ninety miles. I stopped there with the view of visiting an uncle of mine, whom I had never seen, and who resided near a little village called Holland, nine miles from the city. I inquired a whole day for a village of that name, but no one knew where it was. I began to think of offering a reward for it; but at last went to the post-office, where I gained the desired information. I was told that Holland was a little place on the Air Line Railroad, and that it was also—and, in fact, regularly—called Springfield. I was furthermore told that the first train would go at ten o’clock that night.
As I did not contemplate remaining long at my uncle’s, I left my trunk at an hotel in Toledo, and went out to Holland, alias Springfield, on that ten-o’clock train. It happened to be a naturally slow train, and, besides, it met with a little accident on the way; so that it was eleven o’clock when we reached Holland, which I found to be a little village, comprising a couple of dwelling-houses and a small grocery-store.
When I got off the train, it moved on, and I found myself standing beside the track, alone—a “stranger in a strange land,” at night-time. What was I to do? The village appeared to be wrapped in sleep, and not a light was to be seen. Presently, however, I looked toward Toledo, and saw a man—obviously an employé of the road—approaching me, carrying a red lantern in his hand.
“Good evening,” said I.