We stopped at the post-office, and Pod read on the way to the hotel portions of two letters, one informing him that his sombrero was at the express office, the other casting aspersions on my race. "Yes, I did promise to meet you at the Mississippi and accompany you across the plains," the letter ran, "but really, old man, after reading your articles, I have concluded that I want nothing to do with a jackass."
Pod seemed disappointed and, handing the envelope to me, said, "Here, Mac, what do you think of it?" I greedily devoured the contents without a murmur, and the Professor galloped into the express office.
"Do you realize that you have swallowed a postage stamp?" Cheese asked, gravely, after I had stowed away the morsels of paper.
"Most assuredly," I said, smacking my lips, "and hereafter you can look upon me as a sort of internal revenue collector."
But now Pod appeared under cover of a broad-brimmed hat, looking frightfully cowboyish. That evening the sombrero so completely unbalanced his head that he sauntered up the street armed to the teeth, and attempted to "hold up" an Indian cigar sign, to the amusement and terror of passing pedestrians. Later on, he became more rational, and gave a street lecture.
Friday, May seventh, was a lucky day for Pod and me. Friday is Pod's and the seventh of the month is mine,—with a few exceptions; hence, the Prof, has on an average of four and a half to my one.
His first errand in Clinton was an act of courtesy. He called on Mr. Gobble, the genial Mayor, and obtained one of his quills to embellish the autograph album which was destined to furnish me a delectable repast, unless Pod should find a gold cure to destroy my appetite for stationery.
His second errand was to place an order for panniers to be made after his own designs, for they would soon be needed; and his third, to call at the stable and superintend a tonsorial artist clip Cheese III after the devil's designs. The circus had begun when he arrived. There, tangled in straps and ropes, lay the frightened subject on the stable floor, kicking, while several men were performing rare feats of tumbling. Pod was indignant.
"Is it necessary to pile on the donkey in that fashion?" he inquired, starting up a ladder to the loft.
"I reckon so, squire," said the clipper, rubbing his bruised arm; "we tied the brute t' auger-holes in the floor, but he yanked the holes plumb out o' the boards, and we bored 'em in agin. Then he brayed, and strained, and pulled out the holes agin. What's he been livin' on? Indian turnips?"