usual, at the same practical conclusions from the most diverse
premises.

They all agreed that the trouble _was_.

To cure it nothing could be better than a change of air. So they
resolved to make a little journey together.

They went first to New York, and the size of it impressed them
immensely. The Sceptic was delighted with the Cathedral of St. John
the Divine, because, as he said, it was so unmistakably human. The
Mystic was delighted with the theatres, because, as he said, most of
the plays seemed so super-human. The Asthmatic was delighted with the
subway, because, as he said, the ventilation was so satisfactory. It
was like eating bread-pudding on a steam-boat; you knew exactly what
you were getting; all the microbes were blended, and they neutralised
each other.

Their next point of visitation was Chicago, where they had heard that
a new Literary School was arising with a noise like thunder out of the
lake. They attended many club-meetings, and revolved rapidly in the
highest literary circles, coming around invariably to the point from
which they had started.

"This is tiresome," said the Mystic; "the Oversoul is not in it."

"It is narrowing," said the Sceptic; "these people are the most
bigoted unbelievers I ever saw."

"It is unwholesome," said the Asthmatic, "but I think I could digest
the stuff if I could only breathe more easily. This wind is too strong
for me."

So they agreed to go to Philadelphia for a rest. The clerk in the
colonial hotel to which they repaired assured them that the house was
crowded--he had only one room, a parlour, which he could fit up with
three beds if they would accept it.

The room was large and old-fashioned. A tall bookcase with glass doors
stood against the wall. The three beds were arranged, side by side, in
the middle of the room. "This is like home," cried the neighbours, and
they lay until midnight in a sweet ferocity of dispute over the moral
character of Benjamin Franklin.

A couple of hours later the Asthmatic was awakened from a sound sleep
by a terrible attack of short breathing.

"Open the window," he gasped; "I am choking to death."

The Mystic sprang from bed and groped along the wall for the
electric-light button, but could not find it. Then he groped for the
window and his hand touched the glass.

"It is fastened," he cried; "I can't find the catch. It will not move
up or down."

"I shall die," groaned the Asthmatic, "unless I have air. Brea