"Yes," replied poppa. "And now I guess I'd better show you your cabins
before it gets any more interesting."

We had a calm evening, though nothing would induce momma to think so,
and at ten o'clock Senator J.P. Wick and I were still pacing the deck
talking business. The moon rose, and threw Arthur's shadow across our
conversation, but we looked at it with precision and it moved away. That
is one of poppa's most comforting characteristics, he would as soon open
his bosom to a shot-gun as to a confidence. He asked for details through
the telephone merely for bravado. As a matter of fact, if I had begun to
send them he would have rung off the connection and said it was an
accident. We dipped into politics, and I told the Senator that while I
considered his speech on the Silver Compromise a credit to the family on
the whole, I thought he had let himself out somewhat unnecessarily at
the expense of the British nation.

"We are always twisting a tail," I said reproachfully, "that does
nothing but wag at us."

This poppa reluctantly admitted with the usual reference to the Irish
vote. We both hoped sincerely that any English friends who saw that
speech, and paused to realise that the orator was a parent of mine,
would consider the number of Irish resident in Illinois, and the amount
of invective which their feelings require. Poppa doesn't really know
sometimes whether he is himself or a shillelagh, but whatever his
temporary political capacity he is never ungrateful. He went on to give
me the particulars of his interview with the President about the Chicago
Post Office, and then I gradually unfolded my intention of preparing our
foreign experiences as a family for publication in book form. While I
was unfolding it poppa eyed me askance.