That wealth, and not virtues, have won him his bride.
SAM PATTERSON’S BALLOON.
Last night while a party of us were sitting around the table in the cabin of the New World, talking about the “Avitor” and aerial sailing generally, our conversation was interrupted by a dark, raw-boned Hoosier who had entered the cabin shortly after the steamer left her wharf. He kept squirming on his chair for some time, and was evidently anxious to take part in the conversation. “I say, boys, I’m Sam Patterson,” he commenced at last, “and if this yer dish is free and no one han’t no objections, I’d like mi’ty well to dip my spoon in.”
SAM PATTERSON.
All turned to look at the speaker. Even the fat old gentleman who during our conversation had not taken his eyes from the Christian Guardian he was reading, stretched up and peered over the top of the paper at Sam. Before any one could reply the Hoosier gave his chair a hitch nigher the table and went on:
“I say, boss,” he continued, addressing his conversation to me, perhaps because I had just been expressing my opinion, “I don’t go a picayune on navigatin’ the air. They ain’t no need of talkin’ and gassin’ about crossin’ the ’tlantic or any of them foolish ventur’s. I happen to know somethin’ about balloonin’, and understand pooty near what you can do and what you can’t do with one of them fellers. I’d a plag’y sight ruther undertake to cross the ocean in a dug-out, than ventur’ in one of them tricky cobwebs; you can’t depend on ’em. Thar like a flea—when a man thinks he’s got ’em he hain’t.”
“Perhaps you are misled by prejudice?” I ventured to remark.
“No, I ain’t nuther,” answered the Hoosier, “I speak from experience. I’ve bin thar.”
“Oh! you have given the aeronautic science some attention then?” I said. “An inventor, I presume?”