THE COMPLETE NOVELS OF MARK TWAIN - 12 Books in One Edition. Марк Твен
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half was dwelling house. At the door of the latter stood a negress with a bright turban on her head, to whom Philip called,
“Can you tell me, auntie, how far it is to the town of Magnolia?”
“Why, bress you chile,” laughed the woman, “you’s dere now.”
It was true. This log house was the compactly built town, and all creation was its suburbs. The engineers’ camp was only two or three miles distant.
“You’s boun’ to find it,” directed auntie, “if you don’t keah nuffin ‘bout de road, and go fo’ de sundown.”
A brisk gallop brought the riders in sight of the twinkling light of the camp, just as the stars came out. It lay in a little hollow, where a small stream ran through a sparse grove of young white oaks. A half dozen tents were pitched under the trees, horses and oxen were corraled at a little distance, and a group of men sat on camp stools or lay on blankets about a bright fire. The twang of a banjo became audible as they drew nearer, and they saw a couple of negroes, from some neighboring plantation, “breaking down” a juba in approved style, amid the “hi, hi’s” of the spectators.
Mr. Jeff Thompson, for it was the camp of this redoubtable engineer, gave the travelers a hearty welcome, offered them ground room in his own tent, ordered supper, and set out a small jug, a drop from which he declared necessary on account of the chill of the evening.
“I never saw an Eastern man,” said Jeff, “who knew how to drink from a jug with one hand. It’s as easy as lying. So.” He grasped the handle with the right hand, threw the jug back upon his arm, and applied his lips to the nozzle. It was an act as graceful as it was simple. “Besides,” said Mr. Thompson, setting it down, “it puts every man on his honor as to quantity.”
Early to turn in was the rule of the camp, and by nine o’clock everybody was under his blanket, except Jeff himself, who worked awhile at his table over his field-book, and then arose, stepped outside the tent door and sang, in a strong and not unmelodious tenor, the Star Spangled Banner from beginning to end. It proved to be his nightly practice to let off the unexpended steam of his conversational powers, in the words of this stirring song.
It was a long time before Philip got to sleep. He saw the fire light, he saw the clear stars through the treetops, he heard the gurgle of the stream, the stamp of the horses, the occasional barking of the dog which followed the cook’s wagon, the hooting of an owl; and when these failed he saw Jeff, standing on a battlement, mid the rocket’s red glare, and heard him sing, “Oh, say, can you see?” It was the first time he had ever slept on the ground.
CHAPTER XVII.
— — ”We have view’d it,
And measur’d it within all, by the scale
The richest tract of land, love, in the kingdom!
There will be made seventeen or eighteeen millions,
Or more, as’t may be handled!”
The Devil is an Ass.
Nobody dressed more like an engineer than Mr. Henry Brierly. The completeness of his appointments was the envy of the corps, and the gay fellow himself was the admiration of the camp servants, axemen, teamsters and cooks.
“I reckon you didn’t git them boots no wher’s this side o’ Sent Louis?” queried the tall Missouri youth who acted as commissary’s assistant.
“No, New York.”
“Yas, I’ve heern o’ New York,” continued the butternut lad, attentively studying each item of Harry’s dress, and endeavoring to cover his design with interesting conversation. “‘N there’s Massachusetts.”,
“It’s not far off.”
“I’ve heern Massachusetts was a — — -of a place. Les, see, what state’s Massachusetts in?”
“Massachusetts,” kindly replied Harry, “is in the state of Boston.”
“Abolish’n wan’t it? They must a cost right smart,” referring to the boots.
Harry shouldered his rod and went to the field, tramped over the prairie by day, and figured up results at night, with the utmost cheerfulness and industry, and plotted the line on the profile paper, without, however, the least idea of engineering practical or theoretical. Perhaps there was not a great deal of scientific knowledge in the entire corps, nor was very much needed. They were making, what is called a preliminary survey, and the chief object of a preliminary survey was to get up an excitement about the road, to interest every town in that part of the state in it, under the belief that the road would run through it, and to get the aid of every planter upon the prospect that a station would be on his land.
Mr. Jeff Thompson was the most popular engineer who could be found for this work. He did not bother himself much about details or practicabilities of location, but ran merrily along, sighting from the top of one divide to the top of another, and striking “plumb” every town site and big plantation within twenty or thirty miles of his route. In his own language he “just went booming.”
This course gave Harry an opportunity, as he said, to learn the practical details of engineering, and it gave Philip a chance to see the country, and to judge for himself what prospect of a fortune it offered. Both he and Harry got the “refusal” of more than one plantation as they went along, and wrote urgent letters to their eastern correspondents, upon the beauty of the land and the certainty that it would quadruple in value as soon as the road was finally located. It seemed strange to them that capitalists did not flock out there and secure this land.
They had not been in the field over two weeks when Harry wrote to his friend Col. Sellers that he’d better be on the move, for the line was certain to go to Stone’s Landing. Any one who looked at the line on the map, as it was laid down from day to day, would have been uncertain which way it was going; but Jeff had declared that in his judgment the only practicable route from the point they then stood on was to follow the divide to Stone’s Landing, and it was generally understood that that town would be the next one hit.
“We’ll make it, boys,” said the chief, “if we have to go in a balloon.”
And make it they did. In less than a week, this indomitable engineer had carried his moving caravan over slues and branches, across bottoms and along divides, and pitched his tents in the very heart of the city of Stone’s Landing.
“Well, I’ll be dashed,” was heard the cheery voice of Mr. Thompson, as he stepped outside the tent door at sunrise next morning. “If this don’t get me. I say, yon Grayson, get out your sighting iron and see if you can find old Sellers’ town. Blame me if we wouldn’t have run plumb by it if twilight had held on a little longer. Oh! Sterling, Brierly, get up and see the city. There’s a steamboat just coming round the bend.” And Jeff roared with laughter. “The mayor’ll be round here to breakfast.”
The fellows turned out of the tents, rubbing their eyes, and stared about them. They were camped on the second bench of the narrow bottom of a crooked, sluggish stream, that was some five rods wide in the present good stage of water. Before them were a dozen log cabins, with stick and mud chimneys, irregularly disposed on either side of a not very well defined road, which did not seem to know its own mind exactly, and, after straggling through the town, wandered off over the rolling prairie in an uncertain way, as if it had started for nowhere and was quite likely to reach its destination. Just as it left the town, however, it was cheered and assisted by a guide-board, upon which was the legend “10 Mils to Hawkeye.”
The road had never been made except by the travel over it, and at this season — the rainy June — it was a way of ruts cut in the black soil,