I arose early with the family, joined them at breakfast, paid my host liberally, and started with Mac for Pittsford. There we were welcomed by a party of young men who had expected to give us a fitting reception the evening before. They claimed that, had they known where we were, they would have rescued us with a bob-sleigh. I did not tarry with them, but tramped on to Rochester, and arrived there at 3:30 P. M., having covered thirty-five miles since the previous morning.
We spent two days in the Flour City. An old business acquaintance arranged for Mac A'Rony to pose in the show window of a clothing store, for which I received five dollars. Although it was dreadfully cold and the wind blew a gale, Mac attracted every pedestrian on the street.
I called on "Rattlesnake Pete," the proprietor of a well-known curiosity shop, who wanted to buy my bullet-riddled hat, but I declined to part with it at any reasonable price; then I called on the Mayor. He received me cordially, laughed when I related my adventures, and subscribed to my book.
Rochester is the seat of a Theological Seminary, and several breweries. Near by is the celebrated Genesee Falls, where Sam Patch leaped to his death. Many old friends called on me during my sojourn, among them a physician, who gave me a neat little case of medicines, such as he believed would be most needed in emergency on such a journey; and while being entertained at a club, I was presented with a fine sombrero.
In spite of the frigid gale which had been raging three days, and of the dire predictions of the Western Union bulletins, I started with Mac for Spencerport at 12:30, right after lunch. The village lay twelve miles distant. The biting wind swept across the level meadows, laden with icy dust from the frozen crust of the snow, and cut into our faces. Five times were Mac and I welcomed into houses to warm, but we reached the village an hour and a half after dark with only my ears frost-bitten, and soon were comfortably quartered for the night. Next morning we started for Brockport, eight miles further on, by the tow-path, which we followed.
The wind was blowing forty miles an hour, and the mercury fell below zero. Every now and then we had to turn our backs to the gale to catch our breath. Mac's face was literally encased in ice; I rubbed my ears and cheeks constantly to prevent their freezing. Only two or three sleighs were out, and the drivers of these were wrapped so thoroughly in robes and mufflers that I could not distinguish male from female. Still determined not to retreat to town, I urged my little thoroughbred on, and soon we were called into a house and permitted to thaw out.
On this occasion Mac, to his own astonishment, as well as that of the kind lady of the house, stuck his frosted snoot into a pot of boiling beans on the stove, for which unprecedented behavior I duly apologized.
Eight more times both of us were taken into hospitable homes and inns to warm before reaching Brockport at eight in the evening, more dead than alive. My nose and ears were now frost-bitten. The towns-people, hearing of our arrival, flocked into the hotel to chat with me, or went to the stable to see Mac A'Rony.
Wednesday I resumed the journey, resolved that nothing save physical incapacity should deter me; now was the time to harden myself to exposure, and prepare me for greater trials later on. But before leaving, I purchased a small hand-sled, and improvised rope-traces by which Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying it. Besides, this novel sort of vehicle would attract attention; I realized that we must depend for a living more upon sensation than upon our virtues. The next thing essential was a collar for the donkey, and I had to make it. But to make the stubborn beast understand I wished him to draw the sled, that he wasn't hitched to stand, was the greatest difficulty I had. Finally, he caught on, and marched along through the streets quite respectably.
Beyond the town we met with some deep snowdrifts lying across the road, and Mac's little legs would get stuck, or he would pretend they were, and I would have to dig the fellow out with my rifle. Again, while leading the stubborn animal in order to make better time in the opposing wind, I would suddenly hear a grating, scraping sound to the rear, and looking around would find the sled overturned with its burden. After several such upsets, I cut a bough from a tree, whittled a toothpick point to it, and prodded Mac to proper speed, while I walked behind and with a string steadied the top-heavy load of freight. Then, this difficulty remedied, Mac, with seeming rascality, would cross and recross the ridge of ice and snow in the center of the road, as if he couldn't make up his mind which of the beaten tracks to follow, or disliked the monotony of a single trail, every time upsetting the sled. During that long and frigid day's tramp but one human being passed me, and he was in a sleigh. He recognized my outfit, for he called to me encouragingly, "Stick to it, Pod; you'll win yet!"