"Oh, then she's not with you," was my somewhat idiotic reply.
"No, she ain't; an' unless the good Lord heaves enough sand into the Atlantic to make the walkin' good, she won't never be with me."
"You must be anxious to get back? Been over here some weeks?" said I.
"A matter of thirty year," he replied, and sighed prodigiously.
"Why, you must be quite an Englishman by this time."
He looked troubled. "Dew I look English?" said he.
"No, no," I replied, comfortingly; "you might pass for Uncle Sam."
"Well, I hope I'll never pass fer anythin' wuss," said he. "It's jest thirty year in November sence I left America, an' I've be'n in this dreary taown ever sence; but I ain't never read an English noospaper nor ridden in an English omnibus or horse-car or steam-car, neither, an' I try to eat as much as possible what I would ef I was at home with Cynthy. An' I'm a Republican clean through."
"Well, what's keeping you here?" said I.