one train of the whole
line. She's timed for fifty-seven miles an hour. She was put on early in
the Sixties, and she has never been stopped--"

"I know! Since William the Conqueror came over, or King Charles hid in
her smoke-stack. You're as bad as the rest of these Britishers. If she's
been run all that while, it's time she was flagged once or twice."

The American was beginning to ooze out all over Wilton, and his
small-boned hands were moving restlessly.

"Suppose you flagged the Empire State Express, or the Western Cyclone?"

"Suppose I did. I know Otis Harvey--or used to. I'd send him a wire, and
he'd understand it was a ground-hog case with me. That's exactly what I
told this British fossil company here."

"Have you been answering their letters without legal advice, then?"

"Of course I have."

"Oh, my Sainted Country! Go ahead, Wilton."

"I wrote 'em that I'd be very happy to see their president and explain
to him in three words all about it; but that wouldn't do. 'Seems their
president must be a god. He was too busy, and--well, you can read
for yourself--they wanted explanations. The stationmaster at Amberley
Royal--and he grovels before me, as a rule--wanted an explanation, and
quick, too. The head sachem at St. Botolph's wanted three or four, and
the Lord High Mukkamuk that oils the locomotives wanted one every fine
day. I told 'em--I've told hem about fifty times--I stopped their holy
and sacred train because I wanted to board her. Did they think I wanted
to feel her pulse?"

"You didn't say that?"

"Feel her pulse'? Of course not."

"No. 'Board her.'"

"What else could I say?"

"My dear Wilton, what is the use of Mrs. Sherborne, and the Clays, and
all that lot working over you for four years to make an Englishman
out of you, if the very first time you're rattled you go back to the
vernacular?"

"I'm through with Mrs. Sherborne and the rest of the crowd. America's
good enough for me. What ought I to have said? 'Please,' or 'thanks
awf'ly or how?"

There was no chance now of mistaking the man's nationality. Speech,
gesture, and step, so carefully drilled into him, had gone away with
the borrowed mask of indifference. It was a lawful son of the Youngest
People, whose predecessors were the Red Indian. His voice had risen to
the high, throaty crow of his breed when they labour under excitement.
His close-set eyes showed by turns unnecessary fear, annoyance beyond
reason, rapid and purposeless