How the Professor ever landed that lop-sided, dilapidated tile of his on the west bank of the Mississippi without a bottle of fish-glue is beyond me.
The wind gave our whole outfit a good blowing up for not crossing the bridge earlier in the day, and Pod had to handle the hat as carefully as an umbrella to prevent it's turning inside out.
Except at such times, we donks were the only ones to get a "blowing;" the threats Pod used to coerce us across that lofty bridge and his final cruel expedient of having a double team drag me with a rope around my neck were enough to drive one to suicide.
"We must reach Iowa to-day," said he. "You show absolutely no interest whatever in the next state; but I'll convert you." I protested until I was hoarse. Said I, "When you take into consideration all the different animals that came out of the ark,—monkey, parrot, man and ass,—and the results of several thousand years of study and research, how many believe in any other state? Only one. Man. There are a few horses and dogs and cats and, occasionally, a white rat, that enjoy heaven on earth, but we jackasses are always catching ——! The last word of my peroration was spilled, as my master whacked me over the ears with his black-snake whip and knocked all the theological and theosophical considerations out of my head.
"Get along, there, Mac," he shouted, "and quit your everlasting braying;" and as the horses started, I "got," to save my neck.
When we reached the middle of the bridge and I was over my dizziness, I slackened my neck rope and followed the wagon more willingly, but my fetlocks bled from scraping on the rough planks and my rich aristocratic blood painted a faint red trail behind us. It was a hot day; I burned as with a fever, and wanted a drink.
"And they call this the 'Father of Waters,'" my master soliloquized, as he watched the sluggish current creep under the bridge.
"What do they call the father of beer?" I asked, facetiously, for I was mad.
"Mac," said Pod, "you have brought me back to earth. Let us hurry to town."
When we were on Iowa soil, the Prof. tied his "stove-pipe" over my ears with a green ribbon, and added insult to injury by making me parade into Clinton in that condition before all the genteel donkeys along the road.