arned that the
sun doesn't rise and set on Manhattan Island."

"You are all wrong, Rennsler," answered Howard-Jones. "Duncan is drawing
a big salary for booming Chicago real estate; you'd do the same thing if
you got paid for it."

"No back talk, Hyphenated-Jones," said Duncan facetiously. "Just crawl
behind that French novel and don't let me hear from you again."

"I will if you will shut up about Chicago; you make me weary."

"Anything to keep you quiet," answered Duncan.

The four friends gradually settled themselves behind afternoon papers or
novels, and remained silent. The train rattled on through small suburban
towns and now and then drew up before a dainty, vine-covered station,
with low walls and high gabled roofs, where the brakeman put his head
inside the door and called off some name in unintelligible accents.
People got out hurriedly, their arms filled with packages of all
descriptions, the door slammed, the train started, the newsboy passed
through with the papers, pop-corn, puzzles, and everything else that
nobody wanted, the conductor poked dozing passengers for their tickets,
the atmosphere grew blue with smoke, and the minutes passed with the
exasperating slowness of time spent on a suburban train.

"I say, Duncan," said Waterman, yawning behind his paper, "how would you
like to take this trip twice a day?"

"I'd rather die a natural death and be done with it, if I did not have a
private opinion that Hades is a suburban town, where the Devil tortures
his victims by making them bolt breakfast in two minutes and run to
catch a train, only to be brought back again after dark just in time to
sleep and take the next train in the morning."

"That's the joy of living in the country," replied Waterman. "However, I
can tell you how to pass the time to-day."

"How?" asked Duncan.

"Go back and talk to the Simpson girls. I saw them getting into the last
car, and I think they are going out to Osgood's, too."

"None of that for me."

"Better send Rennsler to look after them," suggested Waterman; "I think
I can recommend him as a safe and suitable chaperon."

"What's that?" said Van Vort, glancing over his paper at the sound of
his name.

"We think you had better go back and talk to the charming Miss Simpson,"
said Duncan.

"Which? The one with freckles, or the one who squints."

"Both," replied Waterman.

"From such a fate, good Lord deliver us," answered Van Vort contritely.

"Your prayer is