"America," I said to him, "is good all the year round; but it is only during revivals that this country is of much account to a beggar." "Hang the revivals," cried my Uncle T——; "for when they are over it is hard to get a crust of dry bread."
It was at this stage of the conversation that I related to him an experience of mine, which happened a few weeks before. I was in the act of washing an old shirt, not having enough money to buy a new one, and I was not rich enough to hire a washerwoman, when a knock came to the door, which I thought must be the midday post. I dried my hands, and, sure enough, it was the postman, who handed me a small dainty letter. I opened this letter at once, and the first words that caught my eyes were—"Most Distinguished Sir," and then went on to make a request for my autograph. The lady also enclosed a list of fifty or sixty names of those who had obliged her, beginning with the head of the State. That, I said to my Uncle T——, is what they call fame in England. Now let us compare it to begging in America. If I had been in that country, I could have begged a clean shirt in less time than it took to wash one, and no person there would have offered me such a ragged one.
Again, as a beggar in America I have sat down to meals consisting of turkey, sweet potatoes, mince pie, and bananas; but as a famous man in England——"I know," interrupted my Uncle T——, whose intentions had been to beg me, and whose hopes now vanished—"I know," said he, "you have to put up with anything; but why? Why don't you return to begging?" Not getting an answer to this, my Uncle T—— looked considerably perplexed for the time, but at last his face brightened, and he said: "Well, lad, if you are determined on the writing business, why don't you, in the name of goodness, go in for limericks?"
XXXV
[The Supper]
I had been thinking all day of my strange companions of the past, both in America and England, and that accounted for my dream at night. In that dream I had invited them all to a grand supper, for I was now leading a different life. I was seated at the end of the table, which was full of fine things, and Brum, of America—the greatest beggar I had ever met—was seated at my right hand. After making them a short speech, in which I commended them on their way of living, and expressed deep regret that I had ever been cheated to follow Fame, who had led me into a treacherous swamp in which I stood up to the knees, with little power to either return or advance—after making this short speech, I invited them to help themselves, and to receive my undying friendship.
They then began to assist themselves with a hearty goodwill, all except Brum, who, to my surprise and confusion, sat motionless, glancing with scorn at his companions. "There," said he, with deep disgust; "do you call these men good beggars? See the way they rush at the food, as though they had starved themselves all day in anticipation of this meal." Saying this, he began slowly to feel the lining of his coat, and, after much trouble, took out a greasy paper parcel, placed it on his knees and began to make room for it on the table. This being done, he spread the contents before him and began to eat in a very slow and indifferent manner. As for myself, I could not eat for joy, to see all these dear faces before me, and sat smiling at one and another, laughing and sighing in turns. Sometimes I closed my eyes, and opened them again on my companions, endeared to me by a past that had few cares and worries.
By a strange coincidence, Irish Tim of London was paired with Oaklahoma Sam of America. Now the latter was a man of very few words, and he always had in hand a long dangerous-looking knife, with which he trimmed his nails, whittled sticks, or threw at cracks in the door, flies, or any other object that caught his eye. But he never allowed that knife to remain long out of his hand, for, if he threw it at a door nine feet away, he was sure to recover it at one leap, and ere it had finished trembling in the wood. When I have seen him asleep at the cattleman's office, he always had this knife between his teeth.
As I have said, Sam was a man of few words, but on the subject of war he was more talkative than an old man. His memory on that one subject was extraordinary; knowing the dates of battles, the number of their forces, names of generals and regiments, and the exact position of their entrenchments. Tim must have unwittingly broached this subject, for I was suddenly startled by hearing Oaklahoma Sam say, "This is Napoleon"; at the same time down went his knife over half an inch into the table. I had noticed from the first that Sam had scornfully pushed aside my table knife, preferring to use his own, although he had retained the use of my fork. Looking at once in that direction, I saw Tim's face turned my way, with sarcasm trembling on his lips, which only needed a little encouragement, and he would then utter one of his scathing sentences, thinking to blight at once the newly-opened flower of Sam's eloquence. "Don't look that way, look at me," cried the man from Oaklahoma, placing his left hand on Tim's shoulder, and speaking in a voice terribly quiet and firm. "I see," answered Tim, leaning back, with his two hands resting on the table—"I see; this is Napoleon." "Yes, and this is Blucher," continued Sam, taking the knife out of the table, and quickly planting it dangerously near to Tim's right hand. "And this," cried Sam, forcing his words between his teeth, and holding the knife suspended in the air, "is Wellington," and down it flashed between the two big fingers of Tim's left hand. Tim grew much paler as he removed that hand to his knee, and it was at once apparent to me that for the rest of the evening he was a spell-bound man, afraid to hazard even a civil question, for fear it would be misunderstood.