A JOURNEY IF YOU LIKE--TERRIBLE ENCOUNTER WITH AN AMERICAN INTERVIEWER.
_In the train to Brushville, March 11._
Left Cincinnati this morning at ten o'clock and shall not arrive at
Brushville before seven o'clock to-night. I am beginning to learn how to
speak American. As I asked for my ticket this morning at the railroad
office, the clerk said to me:
"C. H. D. or C. C. C. St. L. and St. P.?"
"C. H. D.," I replied, with perfect assurance.
I happened to hit on the right line for Brushville.
By this time I know pretty well all those combinations of the alphabet
by which the different railroad lines of America are designated.
No hope of comfort or of a dinner to-day. I shall have to change trains
three times, but none of them, I am grieved to hear, have parlor cars or
dining cars. There is something democratic about uniform cars for all
alike. I am a democrat myself, yet I have a weakness for the parlor
cars--and the dining cars.
At noon we stopped five minutes at a place which, two years ago, counted
six wooden huts. To-day it has more than 5000 inhabitants, the electric
light in the streets, a public library, two hotels, four churches, two
banks, a public school, a high school, cuspidores, toothpicks, and all
the signs of American civilization.
I changed trains at one o'clock at Castle Green Junction. No hotel in
the place. I inquired where food could be obtained. A little wooden hut,
on the other side of the depot, bearing the inscription "Lunch Room,"
was pointed out to me. _Lunch_ in America has not the meaning that it
has in England, as I often experienced to my despair. The English are
solid people. In England _lunch_ means something. In America, it does
not. However, as there was no _Beware_ written outside, I entered the
place. Several people were eating pies, fruit pies, pies with crust
under, and crust over: sealed mysteries.
[Illustration: "PEACH POY AND APPLE POY."]
"I want something to eat," I said to a man behind the counter, who was
in possession of only one eye, and hailed from Old Oireland.
"What 'd ye loike?" replied he, winking with the eye that was not there.
"Well, what have you got?"
"Peach poy, apricot poy, apple poy, and mince poy."
"Is that all?"
"And, shure, what more do you want?"
I have always suspected something mysterious about mince pies. At home,
I eat mince pies. I also trust my friends' cooks. Outside, I pass. I
think that mince pies and sausages should be made at home.
"I like a little variety," I said to the Irishman, "give me a small
slice of apple pie, one of apricot pie, and another of peach pie."
The Irishman stared at me.
"What's the matter with the mince poy?" he seemed to say.
I could see from his eye that he resented the insult offered to his
mince pies.
I ate my pies and returned on the platform. I was told that the train
was two hours behind time, and I should be too late to catch the last
Brushville train at the next change.
I walked and smoked.
The three pies began to get acquainted with each other.
* * * * *
_Brushville, March 12._
Oh, those pies!
At the last change yesterday, I arrived too late. The last Brushville
train was gone.
The pies were there.
A fortune I would have given for a dinner and a bed, which now seemed
more problematic than ever.
I went to the station-master.
"Can I have a special train to take me to Brushville to-night?"
"A hundred dollars."
"How much for a locomotive alone?"
"Sixty dollars."
"Have you a freight train going to Brushville?"
"What will you do with it?"
"Board it."
"Board it! I can't stop the train."
"I'll take my chance."
"Your life is insured?"
"Yes; for a great deal more than it is worth."
"Very well," he said, "I'll let you do it for five dollars."
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO BRUSHVILLE.]
And he looked as if he was going to enjoy the fun. The freight train
arrived, slackened speed, and I boarded, with my portmanteau and my
umbrella, a car loaded with timber. I placed my handbag on the
timber--you know, the one I had when traveling in "the neighborhood of
Chicago"--sat on it, opened my umbrella, and waved a "tata" to the
station-master.
It was raining fast, and I had a journey of some thirty miles to make at
the rate of about twelve miles an hour.
Oh, those pies! They now seemed to have resolved to fight it out.
_Sacrebleu! De bleu! de bleu!_
A few miles from Brushville I had to get out, or rather, get down, and
take a ticket for Brushville on board a local train.
Benumbed with cold, wet through, and famished, I arrived here at ten
o'clock last night. The peach pie, the apple pie, and the apricot pie
had settled their differences and become on friendly and accommodating
terms.
I was able, on arriving at the hotel, to enjoy some light refreshments,
which I only obtained, at that time of night, thanks to the manager,
whom I had the pleasure of knowing personally.
At eleven o'clock I went to bed, or, to use a more proper expression for
my Philadelphia readers, I retired.
I had been "retiring" for about half an hour, when I heard a knock at
the door.
"Who's there?" I grumbled from under the bedclothes.
"A representative of the Brushville _Express_."
"Oh," said I, "I am very sorry--but I'm asleep."
"Please let me in; I won't detain you very long."
"I guess you won't. Now, please do not insist. I am tired, upset, ill,
and I want rest. Come to-morrow morning."
"No, I can't do that," answered the voice behind the door; "my paper
appears in the morning, and I want to put in something about you."
"Now, do go away," I pleaded, "there's a good fellow."
"I must see you," insisted the voice.
"You go!" I cried, "you go----" without mentioning any place.
For a couple of minutes there was silence, and I thought the interviewer
was gone. The illusion was sweet, but short. There was another knock,
followed by a "I really must see you to-night." Seeing that there would
be no peace until I had let the reporter in, I unbolted the door, and
jumped back into my--you know.
[Illustration: THE INTERVIEWER.]
It was pitch dark.
The door opened; and I heard the interviewer's steps in the room. By and
by, the sound of a pocket being searched was distinct. It was his own. A
match was pulled out and struck; the premises examined and
reconnoitered.
A chandelier with three lights hung in the middle of the room. The
reporter, speechless and solemn, lighted one burner, then two, then
three, chose the most comfortable seat, and installed himself in it,
looking at me with an air of triumph.
I was sitting up, wild and desheveled, in my "retiring" clothes.
"_Que voulez-vous?_" I wanted to yell, my state of drowsiness allowing
me to think only in French.
Instead of translating this query by "What do you want?" as I should
have done, if I had been in the complete enjoyment of my intellectual
faculties, I shouted to him:
"What will you have?"
"Oh, thanks, I'm not particular," he calmly replied. "I'll have a little
whisky and soda--rye whisky, please."
My face must have been a study as I rang for whisky and soda.
The mixture was brought--for two.
"I suppose you have no objection to my smoking?" coolly said the man in
the room.
"Not at all," I remarked; "this is perfectly lovely; I enjoy it all."
He pulled out his pocket-book and his pencil, crossed his legs, and
having drawn a long whiff from his cigar, he said:
"I see that you have no lecture to deliver in Brushville; may I ask you
what you have come here for?"
"Now," said I, "what the deuce is that to you? If this is the kind of
questions you have to ask me, you go----"
He pocketed the rebuff, and went on undisturbed:
"How are you struck with Brushville?"
"I am struck," said I, "with the cheek of some of the inhabitants. I
have driven to this hotel from the depot in a closed carriage, and I
have seen nothing of your city."
The man wrote down something.
"I lecture to-morrow night," I continued, "before the students of the
State University, and I have come here for rest."
He took this down.
"All this, you see, is very uninteresting; so, good-night."
And I disappeared.
The interviewer rose and came to my side.
"Really, now that I am here, you may as well let me have a chat with
you."
"You wretch!" I exclaimed. "Don't you see that I am dying for sleep? Is
there nothing sacred for you? Have you lost all sense of charity? Have
you no mother? Don't you believe in future punishment? Are you a man or
a demon?"
"Tell me some anecdotes, some of your reminiscences of the road," said
the man, with a sardonic grin.
I made no reply. The imperturbable reporter resumed his seat and smoked.
"Are you gone?" I sighed, from under the blankets.
The answer came in the following words:
"I understand, sir, that when you were a young man----"
"When I was WHAT?" I shouted, sitting up once more.
"I understand, sir, that when you were _quite_ a young man," repeated
the interviewer, with the sentence improved, "you were an officer in
the French army."
"I was," I murmured, in the same position.
"I also understand you fought during the Franco-Prussian war."
"I did," I said, resuming a horizontal position.
"May I ask you to give me some reminiscences of the Franco-Prussian
war--just enough to fill about a column?"
I rose and again sat up.
"Free citizen of the great American Republic," said I, "beware, beware!
There will be blood shed in this room to-night."
And I seized my pillow.
"You are not meaty," exclaimed the reporter.
"May I inquire what the meaning of this strange expression is?" I said,
frowning; "I don't speak American fluently."
"It means," he replied, "that there is very little to be got out of
you."
"Are you going?" I said, smiling.
"Well, I guess I am."
"Good-night."
"Good-night."
I bolted the door, turned out the gas, and "re-retired."
"Poor fellow," I thought; "perhaps he relied on me to supply him with
material for a column. I might have chatted with him. After all, these
reporters have invariably been kind to me. I might as well have obliged
him. What is he going to do?"
And I dreamed that he was dismissed.
I ought to have known better.
This morning I opened the Brushville _Express_, and, to my stupefaction,
saw a column about me. My impressions of Brushville, that I had no
opportunity of looking at, were there. Nay, more. I would blush to
record here the exploits I performed during the Franco-Prussian war, as
related by my interviewer, especially those which took place at the
battle of Gravelotte, where, unfortunately, I was not present. The whole
thing was well written. The reference to my military services began
thus: "Last night a hero of the great Franco-Prussian war slept under
the hospitable roof of Morrison Hotel, in this city."
"Slept!" This was adding insult to injury.
* * * * *
This morning I had the visit of two more reporters.
"What do you think of Brushville?" they said; and, seeing that I would
not answer the question, they volunteered information on Brushville, and
talked loud on the subject. I have no doubt that the afternoon papers
will publish my impressions of Brushville.
[Illustration]