p here this afternoon my
wife got the _Ladies' Home Journal_ of month before last. It had been
following us around for six weeks, from London to Paris, to Berlin, to
Munich, to Vienna, to a dozen other places. Now she's fixed for the
night. She won't let up until she's read every word--the advertisements
first. And she'll spend all day to-morrow sending off for things--new
collar hooks, breakfast foods, complexion soaps and all that sort of
junk. Are you married yourself?"

"No; not yet."

"Well, then, you don't know how it is. But I guess you play poker."

"Oh, to be sure."

"Well, let's go down into the town and hunt up some quiet barroom and
have a civilised evening. This scenery gives me the creeps."

"I'm with you. But where are we going to get any chips?"

"Don't worry. I carry a set with me. I made my wife put it in the
bottom of my trunk, along with a bottle of real whiskey and a couple of
porous plasters. A man can't be too careful when he's away from home."

They start along the terrace toward the station of the funicular
railway. The sun has now disappeared behind the great barrier of ice and
the colours of the scene are fast softening. All the scarlets and
vermilions are gone; a luminous pink bathes the whole scene in its fairy
light. The night train for Venice, leaving the town, appears as a long
string of blinking lights. A chill breeze comes from the Alpine vastness
to westward. The deep silence of an Alpine night settles down. The two
Americans continue their talk until they are out of hearing. The breeze
interrupts and obfuscates their words, but now and then half a sentence
comes clearly.

"Have you seen any American papers lately?"

"Nothing but the Paris _Herald_--if you call _that_ a paper."

"How are the Giants making out?"

"... badly as usual ... rotten ... slump ... shake up...."

"... John McGraw ... Connie Mack ... glass arm...."

"... homesick ... give five dollars for...."

"... whole continent without a single baseball cl...."

"... glad to get back ... damn tired...."

"... damn...."

"... _damn_...."

VIENNA

[Illustration: VIENNA]

VIENNA

The casual Sunday School superintendent, bursting with visions of
luxurious gaieties, his brain incited by references to _Wiener blut_,
his corpuscles tripping to the strains of some Viennese _schlagermusik_,
will suffer only disappointment as he sallies forth on his first night
in Vienna. He is gorgeously capa