’S’pose if he’d ever wanted ‘m t’ skate he’d hed ’em born with skates on?’ said Uncle Eb.

‘Danno,’ said the man.  ’It behooves us all to be careful.  The Bible says “Go not after new things."’

‘My friend,’ said Uncle Eb, between bites of a doughnut, ‘I don’ care what I ride in so long as ‘tain’t a hearse.  I want sumthin’ at’s comfortable an’ purty middlin’ spry.  It’ll do us good up here t’ git jerked a few hunderd miles an’ back ev’ry leetle while.  Keep our j’ints limber.  We’ll live longer fer it, an’ thet’ll please God sure — cuz I don’t think he’s hankerin’ fer our society — not a bit.  Don’ make no difference t’ him whuther we ride ’n a spring wagon er on the cars so long’s we’re right side up ‘n movin’.  We need more steam; we’re too dum slow.  Kind o’ think a leetle more steam in our religion wouldn’t hurt us a bit.  It’s purty fur behind.’

We got to Albany in the evening, just in time for the night boat.  Uncle Eb was a sight in his dusty broadcloth, when we got off the cars, and I know my appearance could not have been prepossessing.  Once we were aboard the boat and had dusted our clothes and bathed our hands and faces we were in better spirits.

‘Consarn it!’ said Uncle Eb, as we left the washroom, ’le’s have a durn good supper.  I’ll stan’ treat.’

‘Comes a leetle bit high,’ he said, as he paid the bill, ‘but I don’ care if it does.  ‘Fore we left I says t’ myself, “Uncle Eb,” says I, “you go right in fer a good time an’ don’ ye count the pennies.  Everybody’s a right t’ be reckless once in seventy-five year."’

We went to our stateroom a little after nine.  I remember the berths had not been made up, and removing our boots and coats we lay down upon the bare mattresses.  Even then I had a lurking fear that we might be violating some rule of steamboat etiquette.  When I went to New York before I had dozed all night in the big cabin.

A dim light came through the shuttered door that opened upon the dinning-saloon where the rattle of dishes for a time put away the possibility of sleep.

‘I’ll be awful glad t’ see Hope,’ said Uncle Eb, as he lay gaping.

‘Guess I’ll be happier to see her than she will to see me,’ I said.

‘What put that in yer head?’ Uncle Eb enquired.

‘’Fraid we’ve got pretty far apart,’ said I.

‘Shame on ye, Bill,’ said the old gentleman.  ’If thet’s so ye ain’t done right Hedn’t orter let a girl like thet git away from ye — th’ ain’t another like her in this world.’

‘I know it’ I said’ ’but I can’t help it Somebody’s cut me out Uncle Eb.’

‘’Tain’t so,’ said he emphatically.  ‘Ye want t’ prance right up t’ her.’

‘I’m not afraid of any woman,’ I said, with a great air of bravery, ‘but if she don’t care for me I ought not to throw myself at her.’

‘Jerusalem!’ said Uncle Eb, rising up suddenly, ‘what hev I gone an’ done?’

He jumped out of his berth quickly and in the dim light I could see him reaching for several big sheets of paper adhering to the back of his shirt and trousers.  I went quickly to his assistance and began stripping off the broadsheets which, covered with some strongly adhesive substance, had laid a firm hold upon him.  I rang the bell and ordered a light.