10 THE BEGINNING. 



watched the smoke of my cigar melt into thin air as it 

 floated towards the gas jets over the table. After two 

 more small bottles and a lot of talk which is not ma- 

 terial to the story every one in the next stall consented 

 to hear the tale of the party importuned from the 

 "knickers up" and this is what I now recall. 



"I was born in an inland village that never heard 

 the whistle of a steamboat or a locomotive or had a 

 race horse of any description within its limits. The 

 mail and travellers came in on a stage and ninety per 

 cent of the people born there were never ten miles 

 away from home during their lives. How my parents 

 happened to locate there is more than I know, but be- 

 fore I was old enough to learn the ways of the world 

 they packed all they owned on a couple of wagons and 

 pointed the horses for a town nearer the edge of civil- 

 ization and industry. I will call the stopping place 



Z , which will do as well as any other name, as I 



can see that all of you are rusty on geography. Z 



was on a wood burning line of railroad, while the 

 small stream that turned the grist and saw mills also 

 carried an occasional steamboat whose whistle 

 brought half of the population down to see the freight 

 rolled on or off the wharf. 7 ' 



"Fizzle," came the voice of the husky man who had 

 held out for the "pants up" story. "Fizzle, I say. 

 Cut it, my lad. Steamboats ! have plenty of them on 

 the Cuyahoga. It's ponies we want, ponies ! ponies ! 

 understand." 



"Probably you had better tell it yourself," rejoined 

 the reconteur, but as it was followed by a dozen "go 

 ons" his huskiness was down and out after the ex- 

 change of compliments and a general lighting up, for 

 another spell of listening. 



