At last the young cyclone subsided, and we sailed over a tranquil sea into Boston harbor, thence by rail to our Bay state home. At Jacksonville, by the way, we had an experience quite characteristic of those ante-free-delivery days of old. I went to the post-office for our mail, having but a few minutes to spare before the departure of the north-bound train. To my disgust, I found a line of negroes nearly half a mile in length waiting their turns for calling for letters. One would step to the window and in an exasperatingly in-no-hurry way, say: "Anything for Andrew Jackson, sah?" After a long delay—"no!"
"Do yer 'spect dere may be soon, sah?"
"Did you expect any?" came the reply.
"No sah, but sumbudy might write, sah."
"Gwan, next!" Then some white man in a hurry would step up to next—"here's a quarter for your place, git aout!" The darky would pocket his money with a broad grin, and but for his ears, the top of his head would be an island.
I could not wait, and would not bribe, so went to the door of the office, and kicked and banged furiously. "G'way fum de doo'! What de hell you do on de doo'?" came from the inside.
"I'm a government officer from Washington," I shouted. "Open the door or I'll knock it down." Out popped the "cullud pusson" profuse in apologies. I grabbed my mail and rushed for the train in the very nick of time.
CHAPTER XXII.
PENDULUM 'TWIXT SMILES AND TEARS.
In many particulars this year of our Lord, 1883, was a sad one for us all. The pecuniary loss, resultant upon the town-building disaster, was severe; but the revelation which came to me of the innate meanness of human nature in matters of money, was the more depressing by far.