Page:The autobiography of a Pennsylvanian.djvu/241

 “Perhaps it is,” I responded.

He and I, with some assistants, went to this place, a huge caravansary filled with the property of other unfortunates. A search of half an hour, while Mrs. Pennypacker sat in dismal patience in the depot, failed to reveal it.

“I can do no more,” said he.

“I believe that trunk is over there in the building from which we started,” I replied, “and I will find it myself. ” That fellow in London impressed me as being reliable and he said he would see to it that I should find it there. I believe he did.”

There, down in the cellar, far back in a corner I found my trunk. Then from the figures on it the baggageman was able to trace the entries in his books. The incident illustrates the results of the pig-headedness of the English in refusing to adopt a system so simple as that of checking baggage, after its utility has been long demonstrated. On the City of New York I met Richard Croker, the head of the Tammany Club in New York, a silent man who gave the suggestion of great force.

“Did anybody ever tell you that you looked like General Grant?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he replied.

Another time he said to me: “I like your man. Quay. I never met him, but I think he must be much of a man.” One of the most agreeable features of a European trip is the return. After having been fed upon sole and vegetable marrow, to find yourself again where you may eat lima beans, corn, sweet potatoes and tomatoes, has its satisfactions. Three months are long enough to be away. To untangle the twisted threads of memory which confuse the ill-digested contents of museums and art galleries is a relief. To meet again the familiar faces of those whose lives are interwoven with yours is a sweetness and a comfort. Rh