ome.

"Yes," he said, "we're in the old house again until spring, anyway. I
haven't been so comfortable in a year. And, say," here he looked at me
quizzically, "Mary has joined the new cemetery association; you know
they're trying to improve the resting places of the forefathers, and, by
George, if they didn't elect her chairman at the first meeting. She's a
wonder!"

CHAPTER XIII

HIS MAJESTY--BILL RICHARDS

Well, I have just been having an amusing and delightful adventure and
have come to know a Great Common Person. His name is Bill Richards, and
he is one of the hereditary monarchs of America. He belongs to our
ruling dynasty.

I first saw Bill about two weeks ago, and while I was strongly
interested in him I had no idea, at the time, that I should ever come to
know him well. It was a fine June day, and I was riding on the new
trolley line that crosses the hills to Hewlett--a charming trip through
a charming country--and there in the open car just in front of me sat
Bill himself. One huge bare forearm rested on the back of the seat, the
rich red blood showing through the weathered brown of the skin. His
clean brown neck rose strongly from the loose collar of his shirt, which
covered but could not hide the powerful lines of his shoulders. He wore
blue denim and khaki, and a small round felt hat tipped up jauntily at
the back. He had crisp, coarse light hair rather thin--not by age, but
by nature--so that the ruddy scalp could be seen through it, and strong
jaws and large firm features, and if the beard was two days old, his
face was so brown, so full of youthful health, that it gave no ill
impression.

He could not sit still for the very life that was in him. He seemed to
have some grand secret with the conductor and frequently looked around
at him, his eyes full of careless laughter, and once or twice he called
out--some jocose remark. He helped the conductor, in pantomime, to pull
the cord and stop or start the car, and he watched with the liveliest
interest each passenger getting on or getting off. A rather mincing
young girl with a flaring red ribbon at her throat was to him the finest
comedy in the world, so that he had to wink a telegram to the conductor
about her. An old woman with a basket of vegetables who delayed the car
was exquisitely funny.

I set him down as being about twenty-two years old and some kind of
outdoor workman, not a farmer.

When he got off, which was before the car stopped