Did I know the rounds yet? He was
getting on, though the country was "horstyl" and the cities were "bum."
Fierce, wasn't it? Couldn't "batter" (beg) anywhere without being
"pinched." But he wasn't going to quit it. Buffalo Bill's Show was
coming over soon, and a man who could drive eight horses was sure of a
job any time. These mugs over here didn't know beans about driving
anything more than a span. What was the matter with me hanging on and
waiting for Buffalo Bill? He was sure I could ring in somehow.
And so, after all, blood is thicker than water. We were
fellow-countrymen and strangers in a strange land. I had warmed to his
battered old hat at sight of it, and he was as solicitous for my welfare
as if we were blood brothers. We swapped all manner of useful
information concerning the country and the ways of its people, methods by
which to obtain food and shelter and what not, and we parted genuinely
sorry at having to say good-bye.
One thing particularly conspicuous in this crowd was the shortness of
stature. I, who am but of medium height, looked over the heads of nine
out of ten. The natives were all short, as were the foreign sailors.
There were only five or six in the crowd who could be called fairly tall,
and they were Scandinavians and Americans.
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