ny kind of trouble under the sun, there was just one
thing that I wanted--to get to him as quickly as possible. Find when
the first train started and arrived--send a lucid despatch--no expensive
parsimony in telegraphing:

'"To Cyrus Talbert, Eastridge, Massachusetts:

"I arrived this morning on the Dilatoria and found your telegram here.
Expect me on the noon train due at Eastridge five forty-three this
afternoon. I hope all will go well. Count on me always. Gerrit Wendell."

It was a relief to find him on the railway platform when the train
rolled in, his broad shoulders as square as ever, his big head showing
only a shade more of gray, a shade less of red, in its strawberry roan,
his face shining with the welcome which he expressed, as usual, in
humorous disguise.

"Here you are," he cried, "browner and thinner than ever! Give me that
bag. How did you leave my friend the Shah of Persia?"

"Better," I said, stepping into the open carriage, "since he got on the
water-wagon--uses nothing but Eastridge silver-plated ice-pitchers now."

"And my dear friend the Empress of China?" he asked, as he got in beside
me.

"She has recovered her digestion," I answered, "due entirely to the
abandonment of chop-sticks and the adoption of Eastridge knives and
forks. But now it's my turn to ask a question. How are YOU?"

"Well," said he. "And the whole family is well, and we've all grown
tremendously, but we haven't changed a bit, and the best thing that has
happened to us for three years is seeing you again."

"And the factory?" I asked. "How does the business of metallic humbug
thrive?"

"All right," he answered. "There's a little slackening in chafing-dishes
just now, but ice-cream knives are going off like hot cakes. The factory
is on a solid basis; hard times won't hurt us."

"Well, then," said I, a little perplexed, "what in Heaven's name did you
mean by sending that--"

"Hold on," said Talbert, gripping my knee and looking grave for a
moment, "just you wait. I need you badly enough or else the telegram
never would have gone to you. I'll tell you about it after supper. Till
then, never mind--or, rather, no matter; for it's nothing material,
after all, but there's a lot in it for the mind."

I knew then that he was in one of his fundamental moods, imperviously
jolly on the surface, inflexibly Puritan underneath, and that the only
thing to do was to let the subject rest until he chose to take it up in
earnest. So we