“They would have sent me the money for my fare if I hadasked for it，” I explained， “but they have had sickness andbusiness troubles. His partner cheated him. And so I wouldn’twrite for the money. I knew I could make my way theresomehow. I let them think I had enough to get me to Salt LakeCity. She is lovely， and so kind. She was always kind to me.
I guess I’ll go into the shop and learn the trade. She has twodaughters. They are younger than I. One is only a baby.”
Of all my married sisters that I have distributed among thecities of the United States， that Salt Lake sister is my favorite.
She is quite real， too. When I tell about her， I can see her， andher two little girls， and her plumber husband. She is a large，motherly woman， just verging on beneficent stoutness—thekind， you know， that always cooks nice things and that nevergets angry. She is a brunette. Her husband is a quiet， easygoingfellow. Sometimes I almost know him quite well.
And who knows but some day I may meet him？ If that agedsailorman could remember Billy Harper， I see no reason why Ishould not some day meet the husband of my sister who livesin Salt Lake City.
On the other hand， I have a feeling of certitude withinme that I shall never meet in the flesh my many parents andgrandparents—you see， I invariably killed them off. Heartdisease was my favorite way of getting rid of my mother， thoughon occasion I did away with her by means of consumption，pneumonia， and typhoid fever. It is true， as the Winnipegpolicemen will attest， that I have grandparents living in England；but that was a long time ago and it is a fair assumption that theyare dead by now. At any rate， they have never written to me.
I hope that woman in Reno will read these lines and forgiveme my gracelessness and unveracity. I do not apologize，for I am unashamed. It was youth， delight in life， zest forexperience， that brought me to her door. It did me good. Ittaught me the intrinsic kindliness of human nature. I hope itdid her good. Anyway， she may get a good laugh out of it nowthat she learns the real inwardness of the situation.
To her my story was “true.” She believed in me and all myfamily， and she was filled with solicitude for the dangerousjourney I must make ere I won to Salt Lake City. Thissolicitude nearly brought me to grief. Just as I was leaving， myarms full of lunch and my pockets bulging with fat woollensocks， she bethought herself of a nephew， or uncle， or relativeof some sort， who was in the railway mail service， and who，moreover， would come through that night on the very train onwhich I was going to steal my ride. The very thing！ She wouldtake me down to the depot， tell him my story， and get him tohide me in the mail car. Thus， without danger or hardship， Iwould be carried straight through to Ogden. Salt Lake City wasonly a few miles farther on. My heart sank. She grew excitedas she developed the plan and with my sinking heart I had tofeign unbounded gladness and enthusiasm at this solution ofmy difficulties.
Solution！ Why I was bound west that night， and here was Ibeing trapped into going east. It was a trap， and I hadn’t theheart to tell her that it was all a miserable lie. And while Imade believe that I was delighted， I was busy cudgelling mybrains for some way to escape. But there was no way. Shewould see me into the mail-car—she said so herself—and thenthat mail-clerk relative of hers would carry me to Ogden. Andthen I would have to beat my way back over all those hundredsof miles of desert.
But luck was with me that night. Just about the time shewas getting ready to put on her bonnet and accompany me，she discovered that she had made a mistake. Her mail-clerkrelative was not scheduled to come through that night. Hisrun had been changed. He would not come through until twonights afterward. I was saved， for of course my boundlessyouth would never permit me to wait those two days. Ioptimistically assured her that I’d get to Salt Lake City quickerif I started immediately， and I departed with her blessings andbest wishes ringing in my ears.
But those woollen socks were great. I know. I wore a pair ofthem that night on the blind baggage of the overland， and thatoverland went west.