Only they do not seem to die. They thrive gloriously.
All the same, if this country of ours ever gets into the war there will be the making of a second Balaklava regiment in a town of Illinois beginning with an R and a certain fire chief should make a gallant captain.
But magnificent as is their indomitability as a quality of character; for us, for instance, to wreck a valuable car, which we might never afford to replace, for the sake of saying that we were not stopped by any such trifle as mud seems more foolhardy than courageous. Nevertheless, they have in some way imbued us with their spirit to such a degree that we have countermanded the freight car, and although the mud is not a bit better, have put chains on and are going to start.
Enthusiasm was no name for it! The town turned out to see us off; the fire chief drove out his engine in all its brass and scarlet resplendency. The ban of our cowardly leanings toward freight cars was lifted and they saw us off on our muddy way rejoicing!
We are glad to have seen this little town. Maybe the contagion of its enthusiasm will remain with us permanently.
The mud, by the way, lasted only ten miles. The celebrated Lincoln Highway parted from us at Sterling and as soon as we left it, the ordinary, unadvertised River to River road that we had dreaded was splendid all the rest of the way to this beautiful hotel, the Black Hawk, in Davenport, Iowa.
I was in a perfect flutter of excitement about crossing the Mississippi though I have scarcely the courage to tell the unbelievably idiotic reason why! It was Mrs. Z., who had crossed the continent an uncountable number of times, who told me in all seriousness that the middle of the United States was cut unbridgeably in two by the Mississippi! Nothing spanned this divide except a railroad bridge, and the only way motorists had ever crossed was on the trestles in the middle of the night, against the law and at the risk of their lives! The bridges, needless to say, are many and quite as crossable as Manhattan to Brooklyn. The river itself is yellow as the Tiber, but its banks, devoid of factories and refuse collections, were enchantingly lovely, sloping and vividly green; a little like the upper Hudson, or still more, Queenstown Harbor in Ireland.
Davenport is evidently a gay resort. A friendly elevator boy detained E. M. and whispered: “Say, mister, there’s a cabberay going on tonight on the island. They’ll be vaudeville, tangoing and a band!” He must have put E. M.’s lack of enthusiasm at our door, for he added: “The fun doesn’t start until late. You could easy take them,” pointing toward us, “to a movie first. The Princess is high class and refined. You take it from me and fix it to stay for a while. You’ll find we’re some lively town!”