ing within ten feet of anybody in Oswegatchie County and not
knowing them--especially if they have a vote."

"It is a queer place here in New York," said Jim, quietly. "It keeps
getting busier all the time. Even the women hustle." I think now he
sighed there, but I am not certain. "We don't get time to get acquainted
with ourselves, let alone our neighbors ten feet away. A man might have
his own funeral here and never know it. Never thought I'd have to live
in such a place," he continued. "This will be a lonesome world when
there are no country folks."

"Jim, you're getting to be a philosopher," said I. "In you that is a
sure sign a woman's picture is focusing on your brain. I've never known
you to drop into sentiment while using the double boiler. Is it that
girl down-town?" (I had heard her name from others, Gabrielle
Tescheron, for I kept close watch of him, but he did not know that I
knew it.) "You know the one I mean--the girl who sticks her tongue out
to straighten her veil."

"No, no," said Jim, laughing. "I made it plain to her that she'd have to
marry both of us."

"A kind of matrimonial sandwich, eh? But say, Jim, come to think of it,
I have heard you tell several times lately just what bad weather we have
been having on Sundays for the past three months. It's a clincher. No?"

Jim began to pound the bottom of the inverted boiler with the lid lifter
to secure a release of the eggs, which he earnestly hoped would let go
and land on the plate.

"Did you grease that thing?" I asked, as he tum-tummed in vain, for the
eggs had glued into a fresco showing a rising and setting sun on
opposite sides of the bottom.

"No; didn't know where you kept the grease. What would you recommend in
a case of this kind?"

But before I could advise, Jim had made fair headway in transferring the
eggs directly without the intervention of a plate, an economy we
practiced frequently. The meal was served in the kitchen to save steps
and progressed with customary smoothness, each getting up a dozen times
or so to bring things from the shelves or the stove. While we were
slicking up the dishes I got to chuckling and Jim began to blush and
look foolish. I could see that he knew I had found him out. We made
short work of the chores. I wound the alarm clock and sent down the milk
bottle via the dumb waiter, which you can't tip with a dime, but have to
push or pull clean to or from the cellar, unless it happens to be en
route just as