shmen
and made to ask ridiculous questions which might lead to our being taken
in charge as a pair of demented foreigners. But my forebodings were not
realized. London was so huge and the crowds so great that even Hephzy's
courage faltered. To select Little Frank from the multitude was a task
too great, even for her, I imagine. At any rate, she did not make the
attempt, and the belief that we were "sent" upon our pilgrimage for that
express purpose she had not expressed since our evening on the train.

The third week passed. I was growing tired of trotting about. Not tired
of London in particular. The gray, dingy, historic, wonderful old city
was still fascinating. It is hard to conceive of an intelligent person's
ever growing weary of the narrow streets with the familiar names--Fleet
Street, Fetter Lane, Pudding Lane and all the rest--names as familiar
to a reader of history or English fiction as that of his own town. To
wander into an unknown street and to learn that it is Shoreditch, or to
look up at an ancient building and discover it to be the Charterhouse,
were ever fresh miracles to me, as I am sure they must be to every
book-loving American. No, I was not tired of London. Had I come there
under other circumstances I should have been as happy and content
as Hephzy herself. But, now that the novelty was wearing off, I was
beginning to think again, to think of myself--the very thing I had
determined, and still meant, not to do.

One afternoon I drifted into the Camford Street office. Hephzy had left
me at Piccadilly Circus and was now, it was safe to presume, enjoying a
delightful sojourn amid the shops of Regent and Oxford Streets. When she
returned she would have a half-dozen purchases to display, a two-and-six
glove bargain from Robinson's, a bit of lace from Selfridge's, a
knick-knack from Liberty's--"All so MUCH cheaper than you can get 'em in
Boston, Hosy." She would have had a glorious time.

Matthews, the manager at Camford Street, was out, but Holton, the head
clerk--I was learning to speak of him as a "clark"--was in.

"There are some American letters for you, sir," he said. "I was about to
send them to your hotel."

He gave me the letters--four of them altogether--and I went into the
private office to look them over. My first batch of mail from home;
it gave me a small thrill to see two-cent stamps in the corners of the
envelopes.

One of the letters was from Campbell. I opened it first of all. Jim