“I have heard my sister say as much,” continued Simon.
“Then your dream is interpreted,” said Brindle, emphatically. “Your Uncle, S. S. Simon, has left one of the largest estates in Arkansas, and now you are on the steam wagon again,” said Brindle, slapping his companion on the shoulder.
Brindle had been instructed by his mother, and made Cousin Cæsar acquainted with the outline of all the history detailed in this narrative, except the history of Roxie Daymon alias Roxie Fairfield, in Chicago.
The next day the two men were hired as hands to go down the river on a flat-bottom boat.
Roxie Daymon, whose death has been recorded, left an only daughter, now grown to womanhood, and bearing her mother's name. Seated in the parlor of one of the descendants of Aunt Patsy Perkins, in Chicago, we see her sad, and alone; we hear the hall bell ring. A servant announces the name of Gov. Morock. “Show the Governor up,” said Roxie, sadly. The ever open ear of the Angel of observation has only furnished us with the following conversation:
“Everything is positively lost, madam, not a cent in the world. Every case has gone against us, and no appeal, madam. You are left hopelessly destitute, and penniless. Daymon should have employed me ten years ago—but now, it is too late. Everything is gone, madam,” and the Governor paused. “My mother was once a poor, penniless girl, and I can bear it too,” said Roxie, calmly. “But you see,” said the Governor, softening his voice; “you are a handsome young lady; your fortune is yet to be made. For fifty dollars, madam, I can fix you up a shadow, that will marry you off. You see the law has some loop holes and—and in your case, madam, it is no harm to take one; no harm, no harm, madam,” and the Governor paused again. Roxie looked at the man sternly, and said: “I have no further use for a lawyer, Sir.”
“Any business hereafter, madam, that you may wish transacted, send your card to No. 77, Strait street,” and the Governor made a side move toward the door, touched the rim of his hat and disappeared.
It was in the golden month of October, and calm, smoky days of Indian summer, that a party of young people living in Chicago, made arrangements for a pleasure trip to New Orleans. There were four or five young ladies in the party, and Roxie Daymon was one. She was handsome and interesting—if her fortune was gone. The party consisted of the moneyed aristocracy of the city, with whom Roxie had been raised and educated. Every one of the party was willing to contribute and pay Roxie's expenses, for the sake of her company. A magnificent steamer, of the day, plying between St. Louis and New Orleans, was selected for the carrier, three hundred feet in length, and sixty feet wide. The passenger cabin was on the upper deck, nearly two hundred feet in length; a guard eight feet wide, for a footway, and promenade on the outside of the hall, extended on both sides, the fall length of the cabin; a plank partition divided the long hall—the aft room was the ladies', the front the gentlemen's cabin. The iron horse, or some of his successors, will banish these magnificent floating palaces, and I describe, for the benefit of coming generations.
Nothing of interest occured to our party, until the boat landed at the Simon plantations. Young Simon and cousin Cæsar boarded the boat, for passage to New Orleans, for they were on their way to the West Indies, to spend the winter. Young Simon was in the last stage of consumption and his physician had recommended the trip as the last remedy. Young Simon was walking on the outside guard, opposite the ladies' cabin, when a female voice with a shrill and piercing tone rang upon his ear—“Take Roxie Daymon away.” The girls were romping.—“Take Roxie Daymon away,” were the mysterious dying words of young Simon's father. Simon turned, and mentally bewildered, entered the gentlemen's cabin. A colored boy, some twelve years of age, in the service of the boat, was passing—Simon held a silver dollar in his hand as he said, “I will give you this, if you will ascertain and point out to me the lady in the cabin, that they call Roxie Daymon.” The imp of Africa seized the coin, and passing on said in a voice too low for Simon's ear, “good bargain, boss.” The Roman Eagle was running down stream through the dark and muddy waters of the Mississippi, at the rate of twenty miles an hour.
In the dusk of the evening, Young Simon and Roxie Daymon were sitting side by side—alone, on the aft-guard of the boat. The ever open ear of the Angel of observation has furnished us with the following conversation..