been obliged to invent statistics.
But that is the fault of the man with a note-book; he will have them,
you know."

"Why don't you tell him the truth?"

"Because he is too numerous in my calling; and again, because I don't
often know enough of the truth to satisfy him."

"But it is wrong to invent things," she protested, dropping her
irresponsible role to fight for the love of truth which was her Puritan
birthright.

"I agree with you; but ciceronic lying is almost a disease. It's a
paragrapher's proverb that railwaymen can't tell the truth, though I
think a good many of us try to confine ourselves to the scenic lie. That
seems to be almost necessary."

Gertrude did not reply. The bounding, swaying rear platform of a moving
train which is reeling off miles and mountain heights of a stupendous
natural panorama is not exactly the place for a dispassionate discussion
of ethical principles. It hurt her to believe that her companion did not
love truth in the abstract, and she meant to have it out with him later;
but for the moment she put duty aside and opened the door to enthusiasm.

"Just think!" she exclaimed; "yesterday the horizon was so far away that
it was actually invisible; and now you can almost reach out and touch
it. Please don't let me miss anything that I ought to see."

"Did anyone show you 'The Mule' when you were up here last year?"

"No."

"It is just around the second curve ahead. Look well up the
mountain-side for a big bowlder facing the canyon; it's a picture, not a
figure."

She followed his directions, grasping the hand-rails and leaning far out
to get a wider view. Brockway wanted to put his arm around her and hold
her, but not daring to, stood by to catch her if she should lose her
balance. Presently the great bowlder circled into view, and she got a
very satisfactory sight of the pictured mule on its face before a sudden
swerve of the train swept it out of range.

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "How did anyone ever get up there to
paint it?"

"It is only a 'water-painting,' as the people up here call it; a natural
discoloration on the face of the rock," he answered. "Isn't it
life-like, though?"

"Indeed, it is; it is almost incredible." Then, suddenly: "That isn't a
scenic fib, is it?"

"No. If you'll agree not to flog me with my own whip, I'll promise to
tell you the truth and nothing but the truth, all day."

"Isn't that a very large promise?"

Brockway had a fleeting gli