Passing down Fourteenth Street, we turned up Fifth Avenue, crossed Madison Square, paraded Madison Avenue to Thirty-third Street, turned to the left over to Fifth Avenue and passed the Waldorf-Astoria, followed Forty-second Street to the Boulevard, and up the avenue to Seventy-second Street, and then up West End Avenue, past my "friend's" residence. There I was stopped by a member of the mounted police, and, to my surprise, was tendered a Loving-cup Reception by my "friend's" pretty daughter, who, with a number of our mutual friends, welcomed me while her father was at his office expecting a telegram that Pye Pod had given up his trip.
All drank to the pilgrim's progress. Wines, flowers and ice cream, tears, and best wishes, all contributed to the happy function, while out of doors, an incident happened that caused me to rush to my donkey's side. It seems that, in looking through his green glasses, he mistook the iron picket screen that guarded a young and hopeful shade tree for some kind of verdant fodder, and destroyed a couple of teeth. The incident threw a damper on the reception, so I made my adieux, and resumed my fated journey with a heart still hopeful, yet heavier than it ever felt before.
It was 7 P. M. when Mac and I stopped at the Minot Hotel, Harlem, and registered for the night. Among my several callers that evening was a Professor of a Riding Academy who claimed to have ridden horseback from ocean to ocean a few years previous and within several feet of his death after losing several horses; and he described to me the perils of my prospective trip, the boundless, waterless deserts and snow-covered mountains, the tornadoes and tarantulas, and the untamed Indians, and ferocious prairie dogs, and begged me to give up the journey. Dear old Professor, how often on that voyage on the hurricane deck of my donkey, did I indulge in grievous meditation on the wisdom of your advice!
I simply thanked the gentleman for his tender concern about my welfare, and sold him a chromo for a quarter.
After a bath, I enjoyed a delicate sleep, and next day set out in a dripping rain for Yonkers, over twenty miles away, with less than a dollar in pocket. I had only sold enough pictures on the way to Harlem to defray my hotel bill, as a stringent city ordinance prohibited it without a license, and I had difficulty in avoiding the vigilant police.
But, although fortune and the weather frowned on me, I ground my teeth and headed for the Golden Gate.
Trailing up Seventh Avenue, I gradually left the busy metropolis to my rear and entered a more open country. Some urchins of the suburbs tagged behind us meddlesomely, and finally a Dutch vixen hit Macaroni with a potato, almost causing me to leave the saddle. That paradox of asininity chased the potato, and ate it. He, doubtlessly, feared lest the missile might strike him again, and decided it best to put it out of the way.
At 2 P. M. I had crossed McComb's Dam Bridge, and at five I crossed another of the same description. It was low and narrow, and Mac was so afraid of the water that I had to blindfold him to get him across. Shortly after occurred our first disaster.
On nearing a little hamlet that had reached the horse-car stage of progress a counterfeit breeze sprang up which soon developed into a howling hurricane, as a huge beer wagon filled with dragons, or flagons of vile spirits wheeled down upon us. They wanted to scare the jackass, and they did. The wagon wheels got into the car tracks, and when the wagon turned out for us the wheels slid, and hit my partner in the vicinity of his tail, sprinkling us broadcast over a quarter acre of ground. I carried out a friend's prediction by traveling some distance on my face; I say this without vanity. When I sat upright, I saw Macaroni still turning headsprings. My repeating rifle stuck in the soft earth erect, dressed in my long-tail coat and plug hat, a veritable scarecrow, while the soil was well sown with rifle cartridges.
It took us a half hour to get again under way. With a degree of patience that would have overtaxed Job himself, I collected my belongings, dragged my beast of burden to Yonkers, and anchored him in front of a hotel. It was only eight; I had thought it nearly morning.