time upon the white path of
foam left in the wake of the _Fall of Rome_ and taking a harmonica from
his waistcoat pocket began to play, "Darling, I Am Growing Old." This
tune, played with emotional throbbings managed by spasmodic movements of
the hands over the sides of the mouth, seemed to convey anything but age
to Miss Mealer, the girl who was so refined. She also sat alone in the
stern, also staring down at the white water. As the wailings of the
harmonica ceased, she put up a thin hand and furtively controlled some
waving strands of hair. Suddenly with scarlet face the mild-mannered
youth moved up his camp-stool to her side.

"They're talkin' about closing up the rum-holes." He indicated the group
dominated by the lady in the purple raincoat. "They don't know what
they're talking about. Some rum-holes is real refined and tasty, some of
them have got gramophones you can hear for nothin'."

"Is that so?" responded the refined Miss Mealer. She smoothed her
gloves. She opened her "mesh" bag and took out an intensely perfumed
handkerchief. The mild-mannered youth put his harmonica in his pocket
and warmed to the topic.

"Many's the time I've set into a saloon listening to that Lady that
sings high up--higher than any piano can go. I've set and listened till
I didn't know where I was settin'--of course I had to buy a drink, you
understand, or I couldn't 'a' set."

"And they call that _vice_," remarked Miss Mealer with languid
criticism.

The mild-mannered youth looked at her gratefully. The light of reason
and philosophy seemed to him to shine in her eyes.

"You've got a piano to your house," he said boldly, "can you--ahem--play
classic pieces, can you play--ahem--'Asleep on the Deep'?"

In another group where substantial sandwiches were being eaten, the main
theme was religion and psychic phenomena with a strong leaning toward
death-bed experiences.

"And then, my sister's mother-in-law, she set up, and she says, 'Where
am I?' she says, like she was in a store or somethin', and she told how
she seen all white before her eyes and all like gentlemen in high silk
hats walkin' around."

There were sighs of comprehension, gasps of dolorous interest.

"The same with my Christopher!"

"Just like my aunt's step-sister afore she went!"

Mrs. Tuttle did not favor the grave character of these symposia.

With the assured manner peculiar to her, she swept into such circles
bearing a round box of candy, upon which was