ecessary to remove the bolts,
and where possibilities of trouble from loosening are greater than
any trouble that may be caused by destroying the threads.

We left Kendallville at ten minutes past seven; a light rain was
falling which laid the dust for the first two miles. With top,
side curtains, and boot we were perfectly dry, but the air was
uncomfortably cool.

At Butler, an hour and a half later, the rain was coming down
hard, and the roads were beginning to be slippery, with about two
inches of mud and water.

We caught up with an old top buggy, curtains all on and down, a
crate of ducks behind, the horse slowly jogging along at about
three miles per hour. We wished to pass, but at each squawk of the
horn the old lady inside simply put her hand through under the
rear curtain and felt to see what was the matter with her ducks.
We were obliged to shout to attract her attention.

In the country the horn is not so good for attracting attention as
a loud gong. The horn is mistaken for dinner-horns and distant
sounds of farmyard life. One may travel for some distance behind a
wagon-load of people, trying to attract their attention with
blasts on the horn, and see them casually look from side to side
to see whence the sound proceeds, apparently without suspecting it
could come from the highway.

The gong, however, is a well-known means of warning, used by
police and fire departments and by trolley lines, and it works
well in the country.

For some miles the Professor had been drawing things about him,
and as he buttoned a newspaper under his coat remarked, "The
modern newspaper is admirably designed to keep people warm--both
inside and out. Under circumstances such as these one can
understand why it is sometimes referred to as a 'blanket sheet.'
The morning is almost cold enough for a 'yellow journal,'" and the
Professor wandered on into an abstract dissertation upon
journalism generally, winding up with the remark that, "It was the
support of the yellow press which defeated Bryan;" but then the
Professor is neither a politician nor the son of a politician
--being a Scotchman, and therefore a philosopher and dogmatist. The
pessimistic vein in his remarks was checked by the purchase of a
reversible waterproof shooting-jacket at Butler, several sizes too
large, but warm; and the Professor remarked, as he gathered its
folds about him, "I was never much of a shot, but with this I
think I'll make a hit."

"Strange