I proceeded to the Lake City to lay the foundation of my fortune by buying town lots.  I laid the foundation on a five-acre block in West Joliet, but had to borrow seven dollars from my nearest friend to pay the first deposit.  Chicago was then a small but busy wooden town, with slushy streets, plank sidewalks, verandahs full of rats, and bedrooms humming with mosquitoes.  I left it penniless but proud, an owner of real estate.

While returning to Joliet on the canal boat my nearest friend, from whom I had borrowed the seven dollars, kindly gave me his views on the subject of “greenhorns.” (The Australian equivalent of “greenhorn” is “new chum.”  I had the advantage of serving my time in both capacities).  “No greenhorn,” he observed, “ever begins to get along in the States until he has parted with his bottom dollar.  That puts a keen edge on his mind, and he grows smart in business.  A smart man don’t strain his back with hard work for any considerable time.  He takes out a patent for something—­a mowing machine, or one for sowing corn and pumpkins, a new churn or wash-tub, pills for the shakes, or, best of all, a new religion—­anything, in fact, that will catch on and fetch the public.”

I had parted with my bottom dollar, was also in debt, and therefore in the best position for getting along; but I could not all at once think of anything to patent, and had to earn my daily bread some way or other.  I began to do it by hammering sheets of iron into the proper curves for an undershot water-wheel.  After I had worked two days my boss suggested that I should seek other employment—­in a school, for instance; a new teacher was wanted in the common school of West Joliet.

I said I should prefer something higher; a teacher was of no more earthly account than a tailor.

The boss said:  “That might be so in benighted Britain, but in the Great United States our prominent citizens begin life as teachers in the common schools, and gradually rise to the highest positions in the Republic.”

I concluded to rise, but a certificate of competency was required, and I presented myself for examination to the proper official, the editor and proprietor of ‘The True Democrat’ whose office was across the bridge, nearly opposite Matheson’s woollen factory.  I found the editor and his compositor labouring over the next edition of the paper.

The editor began the examination with the alphabet.  I said in England we used twenty-six letters, and I named all of them correctly except the last.  I called it “zed,” but the editor said it was “zee,” and I did not argue the point.

He then asked me to pick out the vowels, the consonants, the flats, the sharps, the aspirates, the labials, the palatals, the dentals, and the mutes.  I was struck dumb; I could feel the very foundation of all learning sinking beneath me, and had to confess that I did not know my letters.

Then he went on to spelling and writing.  My writing was barely passable, and my spelling was quite out of date.  I used superfluous letters which had been very properly abolished by Webster’s dictionary.