The Gilded Age - Mark Twain [64]
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, and of fathomless mud-holes. In the principal street of the city, it had received more attention; for hogs, great and small, rooted about in it and wallowed in it, turning the street into a liquid quagmire which could only be crossed on pieces of plank thrown here and there.
About the chief cabin, which was the store and grocery of this mart of trade, the mud was more liquid than elsewhere, and the rude platform in front of it and the dry-goods boxes mounted thereon were places of refuge for all the loafers of the place. Down by the stream was a dilapidated building which served for a hemp warehouse, and a shaky wharf extended out from it into the water. In fact a flat-boat was there moored by it, its setting poles 2 lying across the gunwales. Above the town the stream was crossed by a crazy wooden bridge, the supports of which leaned all ways in the soggy soil; the absence of a plank here and there in the flooring made the crossing of the bridge faster than a walk an offense not necessary to be prohibited by law.
“This, gentlemen,” said Jeff, “is Columbus River, alias Goose Run. If it was widened, and deepened, and straightened, and made long enough, it would be one of the finest rivers in the western country.”
As the sun rose and sent his level beams along the stream, the thin stratum of mist, or malaria, rose also and dispersed, but the light was not able to enliven the dull water nor give any hint of its apparently fathomless depth. Venerable mud-turtles crawled up and roosted upon the old logs in the stream, their backs glistening in the sun, the first inhabitants of the metropolis to begin the active business of the day.
It was not long, however, before smoke began to issue from the city chimnies; and before the engineers had finished their breakfast they were the object of the curious inspection of six or eight boys and men, who lounged into the camp and gazed about them with languid interest, their hands in their pockets every one.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” called out the chief engineer, from the table.
“Good mawning,” drawled out the spokesman of the party. “I allow thish-yers the railroad, I heern it was a-comin’.”
“Yes, this is the railroad, all but the rails and the iron-horse.”
“I reckon you kin git all the rails you want outen my white oak timber over thar,” replied the first speaker, who appeared to be a man of property and willing to strike up a trade.
“You’ll have to negotiate with the contractors about the rails, sir,” said Jeff; “here’s Mr. Brierly, I’ve no doubt would like to buy your rails when the time comes.”
“O,” said the man, “I thought maybe you’d fetch the whole bilin along with you. But if you want rails, I’ve got em, haint I Eph.”
“Heaps,” said Eph, without taking his eyes off the group at the table.
“Well,” said Mr. Thompson, rising from his seat and moving towards his tent, “the railroad has come to Stone’s Landing, sure; I move we take a drink on it all round.”
The proposal met with universal favor. Jeff gave prosperity to Stone’s Landing and navigation to Goose Run, and the toast was washed down with gusto, in the simple fluid of corn, and with the return compliment that a rail road was a good thing, and that Jeff Thompson was no slouch.
About ten o’clock a horse and wagon was descried making a slow approach to the camp over the prairie. As it drew near, the wagon was seen to contain a portly gentleman, who hitched impatiently forward on his seat, shook the reins and gently touched up his horse, in the vain attempt to communicate his own energy to that dull