my own expense.

I can safely say, I have never been so dog-tired as that night in

Chicago. When it was time to start, I descended the platform like

a man in a dream. It was a long train, lighted from end to end;

and car after car, as I came up with it, was not only filled but

overflowing. My valise, my knapsack, my rug, with those six

ponderous tomes of Bancroft, weighed me double; I was hot,

feverish, painfully athirst; and there was a great darkness over

me, an internal darkness, not to be dispelled by gas. When at last

I found an empty bench, I sank into it like a bundle of rags, the

world seemed to swim away into the distance, and my consciousness

dwindled within me to a mere pin's head, like a taper on a foggy

night.

When I came a little more to myself, I found that there had sat

down beside me a very cheerful, rosy little German gentleman,

somewhat gone in drink, who was talking away to me, nineteen to the

dozen, as they say. I did my best to keep up the conversation; for

it seemed to me dimly as if something depended upon that. I heard

him relate, among many other things, that there were pickpockets on

the train, who had already robbed a man of forty dollars and a

return ticket; but though I caught the words, I do not think I

properly understood the sense until next morning; and I believe I

replied at the time that I was very glad to hear it. What else he

talked about I have no guess; I remember a gabbling sound of words,

his profuse gesticulation, and his smile, which was highly

explanatory: but no more. And I suppose I must have shown my

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