o you think we'll get to Bridgeboro, New Jersey?"

"Depends on the out trains from New York," he said; "we get in about
three. No telling how long you'll stand in the yards. If you're picked
up pretty quick, you ought to be home in time for breakfast. But there's
no telling with a dead special."

I said, "You don't call this car a dead one, do you? You ought to have
seen the adventures it had."

He laughed and said, "A dead special is a pickup. It ain't carried
straight through. It's picked up and laid down and picked up. See?"

"We should worry when we get home," I said.

"You'll get there," he said, nice and pleasant; "don't you worry."

"Worry?" Connie said. "That must be a Greek word; I never heard it."

He was an awful nice fellow, that brakeman.

Pretty soon we were all sprawling on the seats, started on our favorite
indoor sport, jollying Pee-wee. The train went through a pretty wild
country and sometimes we could look way down into deep valleys, and
sometimes mountains went right up straight from the tracks and seemed
like walls outside the windows.

Wig said, "To-morrow is Columbus Day."

"Right the first time," I told him; "I wish we weren't going to get home
'till Tuesday."

"What's the difference between Tuesday?" Connie wanted to know.

"Is it a conundrum?" I said.

"No, it's an adverb, I mean a proverb," he said.

"Tuesday and _what_?" Pee-wee shouted.

"Tuesday and nothing," Connie said; "just Tuesday. Ask me the answer to
it."

"You're crazy," Pee-wee shouted; "what's the answer to it?"

Connie said, "There isn't any answer. Want to hear another? How many
onions are there?"

"Where?" Pee-wee yelled.

"Anywhere," Connie said.

"That shows how much sense you have," the kid screamed.

I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the seat.

"What's the cause of tears?" Connie said right back at him.

"What?" Pee-wee asked him.

"Crying," Connie said. "Why is the sky blue?"

"Why is it?" the kid shouted.

"It isn't," Connie said; "look out of the window, it's black."

"That isn't a riddle," Pee-wee shouted.

"It's a fact," Connie said; "what's the answer to a question?"

"You make me tired," the kid screamed; "what kind of a question?"

"Any kind," Connie said; "how fast is a mile?"

"A mile isn't fast, you crazy Indian!" Pee-wee screamed at him. "That
shows----"

"All right, how slow is it then?" Connie asked him. "Suppose I have my
picture taken."

"Well, what?" the kid blu