g feet, and a panting man
has jumped from the roadway to my rear step while we were in motion. The
next morning there were stains on my cushions--the stains left by bloody
hands. They never could wash them out. They never could wash them out."

There was a lurch as a wheel bumped down into a hollow in the rough
road, and the exile fell to groaning and blaspheming.

"Ah, my rheumatic joints; my poor old bones! This climate!"

So the old Fifth Avenue bus complained of the rheumatism. I recalled
that the diligence that carried M. Tartarin across the Algerian desert
also gave vent to many "Ai's" about aching joints and sudden twinges.
What creatures of imitation we are, to be sure!

"But it is the loss of old friends that hurts the most," so the
confidences went on. "There was Mulligan, for example, of whom I was
speaking just now--he of the long coat and the dented brown derby hat.
Far up, near the end of the line, there was an old one-story frame
roadhouse, that had been there in my father's time, in my grandfather's
time, in my great-grandfather's time. Mulligan knew it well, and many
the time, when he came out of it, he was swaying slightly, and had to
pull himself up to the box by means of the seat rails. Then there were
anxious moments, as we raced over the cobble-stones, and my wheels
scraped other wheels to the right and left. In those days there was a
strap, one end of which was attached to the driver's boot, and the other
end to the door at the rear. When a passenger wished to alight he pulled
the strap and the driver released his hold. Sometimes the young
bucks--we called them dudes in those days--inside had been dining well,
and were hunting for mischief. Two or three of them would grab the strap
and pull with all their strength. My sides are creaky now, but they ache
with laughing when I recall how Mulligan used to swear. Sometimes the
strap gave and sometimes the driver' leg was twisted half off. Was that
the origin of the expression 'pulling his leg'? I wonder! The fare was
dropped into the box up in front. At first the driver was the one who
made the change. Later the change was handed out in sealed paper
envelopes. Mulligan was of the early days. What became of him? Oh, he
went into politics.

"I'll tell you what you can do for me," the exile went on. "Some day,
when you are back in the old town just drop into the Hoffman House bar
and take a drink for me, all the time looking up at the pictures of the