“Iss, massa!” answered the negro, and whisked off with his napkin to inquire after the lingering equipage.
The Major said he was going to Nauvoo too, and begged the favour of a lift, which I willingly conceded.
The mules and waggon, with their whipcracking teamster, soon rattled up to the door; my bill was promptly paid, my baggage transferred to the vehicle; the Major and I climbed into our places, and we started.
“How comes it, Major,” said I, “that there is no line open to Nauvoo?”
The Major knocked the ashes off his cigar as he replied, “Wall, I suppose it wouldn’t pay. Rail to Fort Madison is all right and spry, because Uncle Sam has property there; but I guess not a dime could be drawed from Washington treasury to make a line on to Nauvoo.”
“And from Nauvoo, westward through Iowa, say to Nebraska,” observed I, with affected carelessness; “what should you say to the prospects of a railroad in that direction?”
My heart throbbed audibly as I spoke, for all my feigned indifference, and I listened with anxiety for the Major’s reply. I had not long to wait.
“That depends,” said my fellow-traveller, with sagacious deliberation, “on the sort of rail you talk about. Is it a line to go no farther than Wall Street, and perhaps your London Capel Court, that you are speaking of, mister?”
“Wall Street and Capel Court! Upon my life, I hardly comprehend you,” returned I.
“Moonshine, flummery, make-believe, sleepers, rails, stations, all of paper, that’s what I mean, stranger;” rejoined the Major, somewhat impatiently.