THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
we might. He had a boat—a so-called dug-out—and fishing tackle, not very good but serviceable. At once we were ready for the venture, and fortune smiled upon us. In half an hour we had caught almost a pailful of bull-heads. Triumphantly we presented them to the landlord, with the request that our catch be prepared for supper. But, alas, that could not be done. We were told that supper was already on the table, and there was nobody to cook another one. But the landlord solemnly promised that we should have the fish to-morrow morning for breakfast. What could we do but submit to fate? On the supper table we found rancid pork, boiled onions, sour bread, and a greenish fluid, this time called tea. But the prospect of a gorgeous fish meal the next morning kept up our spirits.
The time came for going to bed. The sleeping apartment for guests was in a loft under a roof, to which we ascended by a creaking flight of steps, little better than a ladder. There were five or six beds in the room, all of which were already occupied, except one. This the landlord assigned to Mr. Grow and myself. Our surroundings were by no means inviting, but we accepted the situation with a laugh, blew out our tallow-dip and slept the sleep of the just. By daybreak our room-mates, some six or seven of them, who were probably inhabitants of “the city” or of the neighborhood, boarding at the tavern, quietly left their beds and went down. We rose when they were gone. There being no washing apparatus in our bedroom we had to perform our ablutions at the pump in the yard, where we found but one towel, which, having already been used by a number of predecessors, presented a very unprepossessing appearance. We therefore wiped our faces and hands with our pocket handkerchiefs, and all was well. Now for the luxury of our fish-breakfast! Our bull-heads were indeed smoking on the table, and our appetite for them ravenous. But behold! the fish
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