This was too much; with a troubled brow and an empty stomach I went to breakfast, and left the doctors to fight it out.
[CHAPTER III.]
Polishing shoes at Vassar
Little drops of water,
Little grains of dirt,
Make the roads so muddy
Donk won't take a spurt.
Never before had I encountered such a disagreeable road. While I tramped over the highlands from Peekskill to Fishkill Landing, Macaroni barely crawled. He kept me constantly in the fear that he would lie down and roll, and finally he did so, selecting a mud puddle. I was told donkeys fairly dote on dust, and that a roll will invigorate them more than will a measure of grain. But mine was different to other donkeys.
Before leaving Peekskill, Dr. Shook said Mac showed symptoms of mud fever, although the tendency lay strongly toward phlebitus, farcy, and poll-evil. He even warned me that I might expect epizootic to set in any day.
To urge Mac on to Newburgh in one day necessitated my start, at day-break. We reached the Fishkill ferry at half-past eight, covering the twenty-mile journey in fifteen hours. The highland road was rough where the mud had dried. Steep and rocky summits stood out, bold and barren, save where occasional bunches of young cedars huddled among the denuded trees.