The glares cast at me were openly hostile. While we were
disposing our baggage in our stateroom--I had hired the bridal
chamber--I heard some of my wife's friends asking her father if he knew
who I was, and whether I had any credentials. He replied that he had
left the matter of credentials to his daughter.
"Well," said one of the party, "these people on board are excursionists
from Independence, and they say this son-in-law of yours is the most
desperate outlaw, bandit, and house-burner on the frontier!"
The old gentleman was considerably disturbed at this report. He made up
his mind to get a little first-hand information, and he took the most
direct means of getting it.
"Who are you?" he asked, walking over to me. "The people on board don't
give you a very good recommendation."
"Kindly remember," I replied, "that we have had a little war for the
past five years on the border. These people were on one side and I on
the other, and it is natural that they shouldn't think very highly of
me."
My argument was not convincing. "I am going to take my daughter home
again," said my father-in-law, and started toward the stateroom.
I besought him to leave the decision to her, and for the next ten
minutes I pleaded my case with all the eloquence I could command. I was
talking against odds, for my wife, as well as her parents' friends,
were all ardent Southerners, and I am proud to say that after fifty
years of married life, she is still as strongly "Secesh" as ever.
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