all the people
are at the theatre, or they've just finished dinner and are sitting
around sipping cool green mint, trickling through little lumps of ice.
What I'd like--" he stopped and shut one eye and gazed, with his head
on one side, at the unimaginative MacWilliams--"what I'd like to do
now," he continued, thoughtfully, "would be to sit in the front row at
a comic opera, ON THE AISLE. The prima donna must be very, very
beautiful, and sing most of her songs at me, and there must be three
comedians, all good, and a chorus entirely composed of girls. I never
could see why they have men in the chorus, anyway. No one ever looks
at them. Now that's where I'd like to be. What would you like,
MacWilliams?"

MacWilliams was a type with which Clay was intimately familiar, but to
the college-bred Langham he was a revelation and a joy. He came from
some little town in the West, and had learned what he knew of
engineering at the transit's mouth, after he had first served his
apprenticeship by cutting sage-brush and driving stakes. His life had
been spent in Mexico and Central America, and he spoke of the home he
had not seen in ten years with the aggressive loyalty of the confirmed
wanderer, and he was known to prefer and to import canned corn and
canned tomatoes in preference to eating the wonderful fruits of the
country, because the former came from the States and tasted to him of
home. He had crowded into his young life experiences that would have
shattered the nerves of any other man with a more sensitive conscience
and a less happy sense of humor; but these same experiences had only
served to make him shrewd and self-confident and at his ease when the
occasion or difficulty came.

He pulled meditatively on his pipe and considered Langham's question
deeply, while Clay and the younger boy sat with their arms upon their
knees and waited for his decision in thoughtful silence.

"I'd like to go to the theatre, too," said MacWilliams, with an air as
though to show that he also was possessed of artistic tastes. "I'd
like to see a comical chap I saw once in '80--oh, long ago--before I
joined the P. Q. & M. He WAS funny. His name was Owens; that was his
name, John E. Owens--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, MacWilliams," protested Langham, in dismay;
"he's been dead for five years."

"Has he?" said MacWilliams, thoughtfully. "Well--" he concluded,
unabashed, "I can't help that, he's the one I'd like to see best."

"You c