. But after I had
recovered a little, I hunted up Chet Frazier in a hurry and told him
Lyla wanted to see him. By that I got even with Chet for about a dozen
practical jokes. When he got in range of that lorgnette, he said "Gosh!"
and actually ran. Then we survivors lined up and got some comfort out of
it, watching the rest get theirs.

As I said, Lyla and one or two others who have brought home their
prosperous and expanded corporal beings, and nothing else to speak of,
have made us a little timid about greeting our successful Prods. We hang
around all ready for action, but we need encouragement. We wouldn't
speak first for a farm. We wait for some calloused gabbler to break the
ice. Gibb Ogle usually does it. Gibb would act as a reception committee
for the Angel Gabriel without a quiver. He's always on the street,
anyway, propping up some building or other, and he is always willing to
waddle up to a returned governor or financier or rising young business
man, and stick out his unwashed paw, while we hold our breath and wait
for the result.

As a rule it's cheering. Our Homeburg boys don't fall down once in
twenty times. No matter who the visitor is, he grabs Ogle's hand and
yells: "Why, hello, Gibb, you fat old scoundrel, how's your sore foot?"
Then we crowd around and fight for the next turn, and go home and
hastily spread the news that So-and-so has come home big and prosperous
as all get-out, and not spoiled a bit.

Sometimes they don't come back at all, of course, and nervy scouts who
look up the delinquents in their city offices come back with badly
frosted ears and spread the warning. But there are few of these. Even
President Banks of the great F. C. & L. Railroad System, who played on
the Homeburg baseball nine thirty-five years ago, will stop puzzling
over the financial situation long enough to give the glad hand to a
Homeburg man during office hours. Of course I don't mean that any one
from Homeburg can break in on him and pile his desk full of feet. You
have to be a thirty-third degree Homeburger from his standpoint; that
is, you or your father must have stolen apples with him--I belong to the
inner lodge. My father and President Banks ate a peck of peaches one
night in Frazier's orchard, between them, and got half way through the
pearly gates before they were yanked back by two doctors. That's why
Banks took me to lunch when I went to call on him last month. If the
Government would let him, he'd give me