mud to
the railroad-tracks.

"You won't sell much plate-glass here, John," said I. "Why do you get
off at this end-o'-the-world?"

"Why," said Pescud, "the other day I took Jessie for a little trip to
Philadelphia, and coming back she thought she saw some petunias in
a pot in one of those windows over there just like some she used to
raise down in the old Virginia home. So I thought I'd drop off here
for the night, and see if I could dig up some of the cuttings or
blossoms for her. Here we are. Good-night, old man. I gave you the
address. Come out and see us when you have time."

The train moved forward. One of the dotted brown ladies insisted
on having windows raised, now that the rain beat against them. The
porter came along with his mysterious wand and began to light the car.

I glanced downward and saw the best-seller. I picked it up and set it
carefully farther along on the floor of the car, where the rain-drops
would not fall upon it. And then, suddenly, I smiled, and seemed to
see that life has no geographical metes and bounds.

"Good-luck to you, Trevelyan," I said. "And may you get the petunias
for your princess!"

RUS IN URBE

Considering men in relation to money, there are three kinds whom I
dislike: men who have more money than they can spend; men who have
more money than they do spend; and men who spend more money than they
have. Of the three varieties, I believe I have the least liking for
the first. But, as a man, I liked Spencer Grenville North pretty
well, although he had something like two or ten or thirty millions--
I've forgotten exactly how many.

I did not leave town that summer. I usually went down to a village
on the south shore of Long Island. The place was surrounded by
duck-farms, and the ducks and dogs and whippoorwills and rusty
windmills made so much noise that I could sleep as peacefully as if
I were in my own flat six doors from the elevated railroad in New
York. But that summer I did not go. Remember that. One of my friends
asked me why I did not. I replied:

"Because, old man, New York is the finest summer resort in the world."
You have heard that phrase before. But that is what I told him.

I was press-agent that year for Binkly & Bing, the theatrical managers
and producers. Of course you know what a press-agent is. Well, he is
not. That is the secret of being one.

Binkly was touring France in his new C. & N. Williamson car, and Bing
had gone to Scotland to lear