Unavailing penitence translated
itself in my thoughts to fresh resolve. There was
another poor soul who loved me--Pinkerton. I must not
be guilty twice of the same error.
A week perhaps had been thus wasted, nor had I prepared
my friend for the delay. Accordingly, when I had
changed trains at Council Bluffs, I was aware of a man
appearing at the end of the car with a telegram in his
hand and inquiring whether there were any one aboard
"of the name of LONDON Dodd"? I thought the name
near enough, claimed the despatch, and found it was
from Pinkerton: "What day do you arrive? Awfully
important." I sent him an answer, giving day and hour,
and at Ogden found a fresh despatch awaiting me: "That
will do. Unspeakable relief. Meet you at Sacramento."
In Paris days I had a private name for Pinkerton: "The
Irrepressible" was what I had called him in hours of
bitterness, and the name rose once more on my lips.
What mischief was he up to now? What new bowl was my
benignant monster brewing for his Frankenstein? In what
new imbroglio should I alight on the Pacific coast? My
trust in the man was entire, and my distrust perfect.
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