EIGHTY-SEVENTH 'ARTICLE, ACROSS THE MISSOURI RIVER, STRIKING GOOD ROADS, Belle Blaine, Towa.
It was hopeless trying to wheel along the waggon track So from Grand Leland we went on again over the railway line. We had come to hate riding between the metals' with the -bitterest of hate. "But there was no help.nnd we slogged on. hour by hour, day by day. 'There were plenty of small' towns and' plenty of little inns. The folks were less ignorantly dogmatic, less gor-darning, less assertive than' the Americans encountered in the middle-west. And any strong things we said ubout Nevada and Wyoming States were mild compared with what the avenge Nebraskian said about them. Still, the man of Nebraska was through and through Ametican, tight from his slouch h t to his socks, The Nebraskians said they could always tell a foreigner by what he drank, An Englishman drank beer, a Scot whisky, a Frevchman wine. An' American, we replied, always drank whatever he could get.
What we didn't like, and what we took many opportunities of remarking upon, was the national habit of salivating. If Americans ever ge: to heaven a by-law will have toibe passed prohibiting their spitting on the sidewalks, In some of the big towns such by-laws are already in vogue. In post-offices, and law courts, und street corners you see posters warning you of a penalty of $5 if you squirt tobacco juice on the pavement, But you might as well make a by-law that "the Americans were ti be modest for all the effect such a by-law his, Spittoons—they call them cuspidors in the States—are everywhere, i every room (even your bedroom), in every corridor, and every passage, When we reached Fremont we spun along. its tree shaded avenues with an abounding gladness, Fur now, traly and surely, we had hidden good-bye to railway-track riding. Omaha, which twenty-five years avo marked the limits of western-stretching civilisation—all the region we had travelled over being considered wild rame, the region of the red man, the umped buffalo, alkali desect, and sudden dexth—was only thirty odd tiles ahead, Though the rond was rough we whizzed sharply. The country was a stretch of heaves and hollows, green, fruitful, wood ed, Down dale we rattle!; up hill we climbed. A. streak of silver caught the afternoon sun, and we raised the ory: "The Missouri; yonder's the Missottri river!" We rushed on. There was no breeze. The day was close and oppressive. Quickly, away to the north, stretched a Dlue-grey veil. It soon vaulted the sky, and the sun was hidden, A cold wind hissed along; rain fell. In the north-east world was black. A tempestuous cyclone was roaring. And we were hanging on the tail end of it. We dodged that cyclone. "Gently now, and let it get ahead of us." was the order. We slowed up. "Now put on pace and we'll miss the shower coming round the hill," was the next order. And we scorched. So we played with the cyclone. We ran over Fonds that were sloppy with rain But we were dry. Our Dunlops sang over the brick-bedded thoroughfares of Omaha that were streaming water. Wo smiled. We took a greasy corner at a curve and a pace that was startling.' That's the way to move!" we shouted. It was. Tivo of us went down with a crash, two axe cranks were bent, two knees were torn and bleeding, two suits were patched with mud. And two cyclists limped the rear of the way into the city.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.