voices they had carelessly dubbed him
a foolish dreamer of mad, fantastic and impossible dreams, yet
comforting themselves withal with the thought that they were not alone
in denying a Prophet honor in his own country, since so wagged the
world.

CHAPTER XXVII.

[Illustration]

The Magic City, stretching itself far and near, had not failed to
include the little station.

Common walls of plank no longer enshrined the person of the Post
Mistress. She no longer looked out from the limited space of a narrow
window onto ragged flower beds in whose soft, loose earth floundered
wind-blown chickens.

She dwelt in the wide, white marble halls of a lofty new Post Office.
Bell boys, porters and stenographers surrounded her.

It was five o'clock. The Professor stood near while she sorted out
some letters and placed them in pigeon-holes. He was clad in the
latest fashion as laid down by the London Tailors who, at the first
sound of the Boom, had hastened on the wings of the wind to the Magic
City. His frock coat radiated newness, his patent leathers shone, and
a portion of the brim of a tall silk hat rested daintily between
thumb and fingers of a well-gloved hand.

As a matter of fact, since he had proved himself her friend through
thick and thin, through storms and adversity, through high winds and
blizzards, the Post Mistress had at last, after much persuasion,
awarded him the privilege of standing by her throughout the rest of
her natural existence.

A dapper youth in livery approached the window, asked for letters and
withdrew.

There was about him a certain air of elegance which yet had somehow
the subtle effect of having been reflected.

"Will Low's valet," explained the Post Mistress. "Sometimes it seems
to be a dream, all this. These men who sat around my big blazing stove
spinning cyclone yarns while they waited for the brakeman to fling in
the mailbag, sending their valets for their mail! It seems like magic,
doesn't it?"

"It does," assented the Professor.

"There's Zed Jones," continued the Post Mistress, "with his new drag,
his Queen Anne cottage built of gray stone, his Irish setters. And
Mrs. Zed sending to Paris for all her clothes, and the little Zeds
fine as fiddles with their ponies and their pony carts."

"And Hezekiah Smith," reminded the Professor.

"Who used to sleep on a pile of newspapers in his old newsstand on the
corner, driving his tandem now. And Howard Evans and Roger Cranes