When I finally drew rein in Dunkirk, at 7:30 P. M., the hotel was alive with commercial men who quickly surrounded us. In ten minutes I sold enough chromos to pay our expenses over night and purchase a new breast-band for Mac.
Prior to February 12, Lincoln's Birthday, I traveled so rapidly (even with a donkey), that events somewhat confused me; following the shore of Lake Erie, I visited a dozen towns or more, sometimes several in a single day.
I had no sooner disfigured the guest register of the New Hotel, Fredonia, with my odd signature than I discovered the illustrious name of Geo. W. Cable on the line above mine. It seemed a strange coincidence that two such famous men as Cable and Pod should be so unexpectedly crowded together in that little book, in a little inn, in that town. Natural enough and pursuant to the Law of Affinities, I immediately sent my card to the celebrated author, who at once invited the eccentric traveler to his room. Mr. Cable had been reclining, having just arrived by train. He gave me a complimentary ticket to his lecture, that evening, which I placed in my pocket, and later gave to the hotel clerk for discounting my bill.
"What a pretty place this must be in summer," was the author's initiatory remark, while twisting a yawn into a smile.
"Yes, indeed," I answered, and stretched my legs.
"And how do you stand the journey."
"Oh, fairly well; getting in better condition every day."
"You are a slender man, Professor, but I assume, very wiry, like the cables."
The conversation continued until I felt the strain, and I presently shook hands, and wishing him a full house, departed. The author-lecturer is a little under stature; he wore a genial smile and frock coat; his eyes were as bright as duplex burners; and he shook hands just as other people do.
It was long after dark when we travelers ambled into Brockton and put up for the night.