this, and get in with some gang, your vacation is
over and you have to turn around and go home.

[Illustration: The farmer who hates you on sight]

I can get more for my money by far from a book. For example, the
Oppenheim novels: there are fifty-three of them, and to read them is
almost like going on fifty-three tours. A man and his whole family
could take six for the price of one pair of boots. Instead of trying to
find some miserable mosquitoey hotel at the sea-shore, or an old
farmer's farmhouse where the old farmer will hate you on sight, and
instead of packing a trunk and running errands and catching a train I go
to a book-shop and buy any Oppenheim novel. When I go on a tour with
him, I start off so quickly and easily. I sit in my armchair, I turn to
the first page, and it's like having a taxi at the door--"Here's your
car, sir, all ready!" The minute I read that first page I am off like a
shot, into a world where things never stop happening. Magnificent
things! It's about as swift a change as you could ask from jog-trot
daily life.

[Illustration: Is she an adventuress?]

On page two, I suddenly discover that beautiful women surround me. Are
they adventuresses? I cannot tell. I must beware every minute. Everybody
is wary and suave, and they are all princes and diplomats. The
atmosphere is heavy with the clashing of powerful wills. Paid murderers
and spies are about. Hah! am I being watched? The excitement soon gets
to a point where it goes to my head. I find myself muttering thickly or
biting my lips--two things I never do ordinarily and should not think of
doing. I may even give a hoarse cry of rage as I sit in my armchair. But
I'm not in my armchair. I am on a terrace, alone, in the moonlight. A
beautiful woman (a reliable one) comes swiftly toward me. Either she is
enormously rich or else I am, but we don't think of that. We embrace
each other. Hark! There is the duke, busily muttering thickly. How am I
to reply to him? I decide to give him a hoarse cry of rage. He bites his
lips at me. Some one else shoots us both. All is over.

[Illustration: I wonder if I'm being watched?]

* * * * *

If any one is too restless to take his vacation in books, the quaintest
and queerest of countries is just around the corner. An immigrant is
only allowed to stay from 8.15 to 11 P. M., but an hour in this country
does more for you than a week in the mountains. No canned fish and
vegetabl