B. MET on the train an elderly Hoosier, who had been to the show-case
exhibition at New York, and who had seen the _hi po dro me_, as he
called it.
"Did you remain long in New York?" asked B.
"Well, no," he answered thoughtfully, "only two days, for I saw there
was a right smart chance of starving to death, and I'm opposed to that
way of going down. I put up at one of their taverns, and allowed I was
going to be treated to the whole."
"Where did you stop?" said B., interrupting him.
"At the Astor House. I allow you don't ketch me in no such place again.
They rung a _gong_, as they call it, four times after breakfast, and
then, when I went to eat, there wasn't nary vittles on the table."
"What was there?" B. ventured to inquire.
"Well," said the old man, enumerating the items cautiously, as if from
fear of omission--"there was a clean plate wrong side up, a knife, a
clean towel, a split spoon, and a hand bill, and what was worse," added
the old man, "the insultin' nigger up and asked me what I wanted.
'_Vittles_,' said I, '_bring in your vittles and I'll help myself!_'"