At length we went into camp near a farm house, where we certainly acquitted ourselves in a manner to arouse the suspicions of any sane observer. We put our sleeping-bag on the ground outside of the tent, built a fire close to the tent on the windward side while a strong breeze was blowing, cooked creamed potatoes in the coffee pot, and steeped tea in the frying pan; and Coonskin tied all three donkeys and the dog to a small sapling by their tails. I felt sure that insanity was breaking out in our party in an aggravated form, and congratulated Cheese, Damfino and Don for not having eaten infected pie.
Camp Lunatic, as we called it was visited by the owner of the farm, a hospitable German, who had a large family. He gave us a generous donation of corn-cobs for fuel, milk, butter, fresh eggs, and water, then introduced his wife and children. I asked him how he came to have such a large family. He explained that he had a large farm and couldn't afford hired help, and he thought the best way to remedy the difficulty was to rear boys to help him. He looked hopeful, although he had eight girls, no boys.
Supper over, the farmer conferred on me every possible honor, even letting me hold his youngest girl, a child of ten months. He said, enthusiastically, he was going to name his boy after me; the wife smiled heroically.
To cap the climax, I was asked to write my name in the big family Bible. The book was in German. My host opened it to a blank page, and, without comment, I inscribed my name underneath the strangely printed heading—Gestorben, thus pleasing the whole family.
When we reached our tent, Barley began to find fault with me. "What for did yuse want to write your name on de Gestorben page?" he asked seriously. "Dat means bad luck, dat does."
"And why?" I inquired, puzzled.
"Gestorben is German and means death, yuse crazy loon!" he returned. "It's de lunatic pie dat's workin' already; wese all goin' crazy."
Next day was hot. In the afternoon my party rested three hours in the shade of a peach orchard, where we were treated to ice cream by the kind lady of the house close by. It was about 105 miles from Lincoln to Hastings, and we covered it in five days.
Threading the villages of Exeter, Crete, Friend, and Dorchester, we arrived in Grafton, where I caught my courier in a dishonest trick, and discharged him.
The party reached Hastings Thursday, June 17, where I purchased a saddle for Coonskin. Detained by a thunderstorm, we passed a miserable night in close quarters. Next morning, Mac pranced about like a circus donkey, and trailed to Kearney in a manner almost to wind his fellows.