"Yes, we can't always tell ourselves from these Dutch. But they know us,
and they don't want us, except just for one thing, and that's our money.
I tell you, the Americans are the chumps over here. Soon's they got all
our money, or think they have, they say, 'Here, you Americans, this is my
country; you get off;' and we got to get. Ever been over before?"

"A great while ago; so long that I can hardly believe it."

"It's my first time. My name's Otterson: I'm from out in Iowa."

March gave him his name, and added that he was from New York.

"Yes. I thought you was Eastern. But that wasn't an Eastern man you was
just with?"

"No; he's from Chicago. He's a Mr. Stoller."

"Not the buggy man?"

"I believe he makes buggies."

"Well, you do meet everybody here." The Iowan was silent for a moment, as
if, hushed by the weighty thought. "I wish my wife could have seen him. I
just want her to see the man that made our buggy. I don't know what's
keeping her, this morning," he added, apologetically. "Look at that
fellow, will you, tryin' to get away from those women!" A young officer
was doing his best to take leave of two ladies, who seemed to be mother
and daughter; they detained him by their united arts, and clung to him
with caressing words and looks. He was red in the face with his polite