There was little time to be lost, for already; the cable said, the arrangements were in a forward state; the staff of the little force had been organized, the rough outline of the expedition had been sketched, and with the opening of navigation on the northern lakes the first move would be commenced.  Going one morning to the nearest telegraph station, I sent the following message under the Atlantic to America:—­“To:  Winnipeg Expedition.  Please remember me.”  When words cost at the rate of four shillings each, conversation and correspondence become of necessity limited.  In the present instance I was only allowed the use of ten words to convey address, signature, and substance, and the five words of my message were framed both with a view to economy and politeness, as well as in a manner which by calling for no direct answer still left undecided the great question of success.  Having despatched my message under the ocean, I determined to seek the Horse Guards in a final effort to procure unattached promotion in the army.  It is almost unnecessary to remark that this attempt failed; and as I issued from the audience in which I had been informed of the utter hopelessness of my request, I had at least the satisfaction of having reduced my chances of fortune to the narrow limits of a single throw.  Pausing at the gate of the Horse Guards I reviewed in a moment the whole situation; whatever was to be the result there was no time for delay and so, hailing a hansom, I told the cabby to drive to the office of the Cunard Steamship Company, Old Broad Street, City.

“What steamer sails on Wednesday for America?”

“The ’Samaria for Boston, the ’Marathon for New York.”

“The ’Samaria broke her shaft, didn’t she, last voyage, and was a missing ship for a month?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered the clerk.

“Then book me a passage in her,” I replied; “she’s not likely to play that prank twice in two voyages.”

CHAPTER TWO.

The “Samaria “—­Across the Atlantic-Shipmates—­The Despot of the Deck—­“Keep her Nor’-West”—­Democrat versus Republican—­A First Glimpse—­Boston

Political economists and newspaper editors for years have dwelt upon the unfortunate fact that Ireland is not a manufacturing nation, and does not export largely the products of her soil.  But persons who have lived in the island, or who have visited the ports of its northern or southern shores, or crossed the Atlantic by any of the ocean steamers which sail daily from the United Kingdom, must have arrived at a conclusion totally at variance with these writers; for assuredly there is no nation under the sun which manufactures the material called man so readily as does that grass-covered island.  Ireland is not a manufacturing nation, says the political economist.  Indeed, my good sir, you are wholly mistaken.  She is not only a manufacturing nation, but she manufactures