Already I realize that there is going to be as much "foot-riding" as
anything for the first part of my journey; so, while halting for dinner
at the village of Davisville, I deliver my rather slight shoes over to
the tender mercies of an Irish cobbler of the old school, with carte
blanche instructions to fit them out for hard service. While diligently
hammering away at the shoes, the old cobbler grows communicative, and
in almost unintelligible brogue tells a complicated tale of Irish life,
out of which I can make neither head, tail, nor tale; though nodding and
assenting to it all, to the great satisfaction of the loquacious manipulator
of the last, who in an hour hands over the shoes with the proud assertion,
"They'll last yez, be jabbers, to Omaha."

Reaching the overflowed country, I have to take to the trestle-work and
begin the tedious process of trundling along that aggravating roadway,
where, to the music of rushing waters, I have to step from tie to tie,
and bump, bump, bump, my machine along for six weary miles. The Sacramento
River is the outlet for the tremendous volumes of water caused every
spring by the melting snows on the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and these
long stretches of open trestle have been found necessary to allow the
water to pass beneath. Nothing but trains are expected to cross this
trestle-work, and of course no provision is made for pedestrians. The
engineer of an approaching train sets his locomotive to tooting for all
she is worth as he sees a "strayed or stolen" cycler, slowly bumping
along ahead of his train. But he has no need to slow up, for occasional
cross-beams stick out far enough to admit of standing out of reach, and
when he comes up alongside, he and the fireman look out of the window
of the cab and see me squatting on the end of one of these handy beams,
and letting the bicycle hang over.

That night I stay in Sacramento, the beautiful capital of the Golden