across my mind, with a mixture of regret and bitter mirth, that I had
never known, and now probably never should know, what the _K_ had
represented. King, Kilter, Kay, Kaiser, I went, running over names at
random, and then stumbled, with ludicrous misspelling, on Kornelius, and
had nearly laughed aloud. I have never been more childish; I suppose
(although the deeper voices of my nature seemed all dumb) because I have
never been more moved. And at this last incongruous antic of my nerves I
was seized with a panic of remorse, and fled the cemetery.

Scarce less funereal was the rest of my experience in Muskegon, where,
nevertheless, I lingered, visiting my father's circle, for some days. It
was in piety to him I lingered; and I might have spared myself the pain.
His memory was already quite gone out. For his sake, indeed, I was made
welcome; and for mine the conversation rolled a while with laborious
effort on the virtues of the deceased. His former comrades dwelt, in my
company, upon his business talents or his generosity for public
purposes: when my back was turned, they remembered him no more. My
father had loved me; I had left him alone, to live and die among the
indifferent; now I returned to find him dead and buried and forgotten.
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. I knew
he would never mean amiss; but I was convinced he would almost nev