der was slung a Springfield rifle, while his breast was decorated
by five bronze medals.

Trina was delighted. McTeague was dumfounded. She appeared positively
glad to see him.

"How do you do, Doctor McTeague," she said, smiling at him and shaking
his hand. "It's nice to see you again. Look, see how fine my filling
is." She lifted a corner of her lip and showed him the clumsy gold
bridge.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sieppe toiled and perspired. Upon him devolved the
responsibility of the excursion. He seemed to consider it a matter of
vast importance, a veritable expedition.

"Owgooste!" he shouted to the little boy with the black greyhound, "you
will der hound und basket number three carry. Der tervins," he added,
calling to the two smallest boys, who were dressed exactly alike, "will
releef one unudder mit der camp-stuhl und basket number four. Dat
is comprehend, hay? When we make der start, you childern will in der
advance march. Dat is your orders. But we do not start," he exclaimed,
excitedly; "we remain. Ach Gott, Selina, who does not arrive."

Selina, it appeared, was a niece of Mrs. Sieppe's. They were on the
point of starting without her, when she suddenly arrived, very much out
of breath. She was a slender, unhealthy looking girl, who overworked
herself giving lessons in hand-painting at twenty-five cents an hour.
McTeague was presented. They all began to talk at once, filling the
little station-house with a confusion of tongues.

"Attention!" cried Mr. Sieppe, his gold-headed cane in one hand, his
Springfield in the other. "Attention! We depart." The four little boys
moved off ahead; the greyhound suddenly began to bark, and tug at his
leash. The others picked up their bundles.

"Vorwarts!" shouted Mr. Sieppe, waving his rifle and assuming the
attitude of a lieutenant of infantry leading a charge. The party set off
down the railroad track.

Mrs. Sieppe walked with her husband, who constantly left her side
to shout an order up and down the line. Marcus followed with Selina.
McTeague found himself with Trina at the end of the procession.

"We go off on these picnics almost every week," said Trina, by way of a
beginning, "and almost every holiday, too. It is a custom."

"Yes, yes, a custom," answered McTeague, nodding; "a custom--that's the
word."

"Don't you think picnics are fine fun, Doctor McTeague?" she continued.
"You take your lunch; you leave the dirty city all day; you race about
in the open air, and