Possibly, one of
MacShaughnassy's bosom friends has found out her address and has gone
down and murdered her. If so, I should like to thank him.
I tried a little while ago to cure MacShaughnassy of his fatal passion
for advice-giving, by repeating to him a very sad story that was told to
me by a gentleman I met in an American railway car. I was travelling
from Buffalo to New York, and, during the day, it suddenly occurred to me
that I might make the journey more interesting by leaving the cars at
Albany and completing the distance by water. But I did not know how the
boats ran, and I had no guide-book with me. I glanced about for some one
to question. A mild-looking, elderly gentleman sat by the next window
reading a book, the cover of which was familiar to me. I deemed him to
be intelligent, and approached him.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you," I said, sitting down opposite
to him, "but could you give me any information about the boats between
Albany and New York?"
"Well," he answered, looking up with a pleasant smile, "there are three
lines of boats altogether. There is the Heggarty line, but they only go
as far as Catskill. Then there are the Poughkeepsie boats, which go
every other day. Or there is what we call the canal boat."
"Oh," I said.
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