He had had no detailed tidings from home for years, and I never saw
a man more keen for the news. On the banks of the river we sat for
an hour while he plied me with questions, which I answered so far
as I could. He hung on my lips; he interrupted only when there seemed
a halt in the stream; he revelled in, all the details of wrecks
by rail and sea. Roosevelt and the trusts--insurance scandals--the
South the burnings in the West--massacres--murders--horrors--risings--these
were his special gloats, and yet he kept me going with "Yes--yes--and
then?" or "Yes, by golly--that's the way we're a-doing it. Go on."

Then, after I had robbed New York of $100,000,000 a year, burnt 10
large towns and 45 small ones, wrecked 200 express trains, lynched
96 negroes in the South and murdered many men every night for 7
years in Chicago--he broke out:

"By golly, we are a-doing it. We are the people. We are a-moving
things now; and I tell you I give the worst of them there European
countries, the very worst of 'em, just 100 years to become
Americanised."

Think of that, ye polished Frenchmen; ye refined, courteous Swedes;
ye civilised Danes; you have 100 years to become truly Americanised!

All down the river route we came on relics of another class of
wanderers--the Klondikers of 1898. Sometimes these were empty winter
cabins; sometimes curious tools left at Hudson's Bay Posts, and in
some cases expensive provisions; in all cases we heard weird tales
of their madness.