While returning to Joliet on the canal boat my nearest friend, from
whom I had borrowed the seven dollars, kindly gave me his views on
the subject of "greenhorns." (The Australian equivalent of
"greenhorn" is "new chum." I had the advantage of serving my time in
both capacities). "No greenhorn," he observed, "ever begins to get
along in the States until he has parted with his bottom dollar. That
puts a keen edge on his mind, and he grows smart in business. A
smart man don't strain his back with hard work for any considerable
time. He takes out a patent for something--a mowing machine, or
one for sowing corn and pumpkins, a new churn or wash-tub, pills for
the shakes, or, best of all, a new religion--anything, in fact,
that will catch on and fetch the public."

I had parted with my bottom dollar, was also in debt, and therefore
in the best position for getting along; but I could not all at once
think of anything to patent, and had to earn my daily bread some way
or other. I began to do it by hammering sheets of iron into the
proper curves for an undershot water-wheel. After I had worked two
days my boss suggested that I should seek other employment--in a
school, for instance; a new teacher was wanted in the common school
of West Joliet.

I said I should prefer something higher; a teacher was of no more
earthly account than a tailor.

The boss said: "That might be so in benighted Britain, but in the
Great United States our prominent citizens begin life as teachers in
the common schools, and gradually rise to the highest positions in
the Republic."