For his sake, indeed, I was made welcome; and for mine the conversation rolled awhile 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.