“Not at all,” I said, “he’s been telling me all about his early life in his father’s cabin on the Wabash—”
“I was afraid so,” said the young man. “Too bad. You see he wasn’t really there at all.”
“Not there!” I said.
“No. He only fancies that he was. He was brought up in New York, and has never been west of Philadelphia. In fact he has been very well to do all his life. But he found that it counted against him: it hurt him in politics. So he got into the way of talking about the Middle West and early days there, and sometimes he forgets that he wasn’t there.”
“I see,” I said.
Meantime Mr. Apricot was ready.
“Good-bye, good-bye,” he said very cheerily,—“A delightful chat. We must have another talk over old times soon. I must tell you about my first trip over the Plains at the time when I was surveying the line of the Union Pacific. You who travel nowadays in your Pullman coaches and observation cars can have no idea—”
“Come along, uncle,” said the young man.