doubtfully, "it
might help a lot if for the first week you acted as my secretary, and
during the second week I was your secretary."

Sometimes, when Mr. Joyce goes on a business trip, he takes me with him
as his private stenographer, and the change from office work is very
pleasant; but I could not see why I should spend one week of my holiday
writing letters for Kinney.

"You wouldn't write any letters," he explained. "But if I could tell
people you were my private secretary, it would naturally give me a
certain importance."

"If it will make you any happier," I said, "you can tell people I am a
British peer in disguise."

"There is no use in being nasty about it," protested Kinney. "I am only
trying to show you a way that would lead to adventure."

"It surely would!" I assented. "It would lead us to jail."

The last week in August came, and, as to where we were to go we still
were undecided, I suggested we leave it to chance.

"The first thing," I pointed out, "is to get away from this awful city.
The second thing is to get away cheaply. Let us write down the names of
the summer resorts to which we can travel by rail or by boat for two
dollars and put them in a hat. The name of the place we draw will be the
one for which we start Saturday afternoon. The idea," I urged, "is in
itself full of adventure."

Kinney agreed, but reluctantly. What chiefly disturbed him was the
thought that the places near New York to which one could travel for so
little money were not likely to be fashionable.

"I have a terrible fear," he declared, "that, with this limit of yours,
we will wake up in Asbury Park."

Friday night came and found us prepared for departure, and at midnight
we held our lottery. In a pillow-case we placed twenty slips of paper,
on each of which was written the name of a summer resort. Ten of these
places were selected by Kinney, and ten by myself. Kinney dramatically
rolled up his sleeve, and, plunging his bared arm into our grab-bag,
drew out a slip of paper and read aloud: "New Bedford, via New Bedford
Steamboat Line." The choice was one of mine.

"New Bedford!" shouted Kinney. His tone expressed the keenest
disappointment. "It's a mill town!" he exclaimed. "It's full of cotton
mills."

"That may be," I protested. "But it's also a most picturesque old
seaport, one of the oldest in America. You can see whaling vessels at
the wharfs there, and wooden figure-heads, and harpoons--"

"Is this an expedi