waiter was so busy watching the finish of the change he handed me that he didn't crack a smile.

"Then I got reckless and handed him a fifty-cent tip.

"The waiter looked at the fifty cents and turned pale.

"Then he looked at me and turned paler.

"Then he tried to thank me, but he caught another flash of that plebeian fifty and it choked him.

"Then he took a long look at the half-dollar and with a low moan he passed away.

"In the excitement I grabbed Peaches and we flew for home.

"Say! Bunch! the only time I'll ever go in the St. Regis again will be just after a hearty dinner."

"I guess you're right, John, but what about this scheme to win out my wedding money?" Bunch queried. "I'm dreadfully nervous about it."

"I know. Bunch, I know just how you feel. I'm quite a bit to the St. Vitus myself, because if Clara J. ever gets wise that I've been speculating again after faithfully promising her to cut out all the guessing contests, she's liable to say something unkind. I simply must get that money back, Bunch, before she knows I lost it, and Signor Petroskinski is the name of our paying teller. I tell you, Bunch, we can't lose if we handle this cinch right, and I've got it all framed up. It's good for a thousand plunks apiece every week, so cut out the yesterday gag and think of a fat to-morrow."

"I'd like to see this Petroskinski," said Bunch.

"I'll have him take luncheon with us to-morrow at the Hotel
Astor—twelve thirty. Are you for me to the finish, Bunch?"

"If you think it's all right I'll trail," said Bunch, and we shook hands.

"But not a word to the home folks," I cautioned him.

CHAPTER II.

JOHN HENRY GETS A SUFFICIENCY.

Since Uncle Peter Grant was elected Mayor of Ruraldene one book ago, our family group considers it extremely disloyal to stay in the big town for more than four hours at a time. So with us it is a case of catching those imitation railroad trains at all sorts of hours and commute to beat the band.

Since I became a confirmed commuter I have sprained three watches and two of my legs trying to catch trains that are wild enough to dodge a dog-catcher.

The commuters are divided into two classes: going and coming.

One of the first rules for a commuter to follow after he locates the railroad station, and hikes there a couple of times to get in training, is to get a red and pink and blue hammock.

A hammock is a necessary evil in the country, because only by this means can the insects become acquainted with the new commuter.

The day after we first put up our new hammock Uncle Peter came rubbering around to look it over. He was all swelled up over being elected Mayor, and he dropped in the hammock with a splash. Ten seconds later the rope exploded and Uncle Peter made a deep impression on the stone porch.

Every mosquito in the neighborhood rushed to his assistance and tried to lift him up with their teeth.

Then Uncle Peter ran home and told Aunt Martha that Cinders, our bulldog, had tried to bite him.

The national emblem of the commuter is the lawn-mower.

The lawn-mower was invented originally for the purpose of giving the lawn a quick shave, and because it can't talk like a barber it makes a noise like the fall of Port Arthur.

I remember the first day I decided I would trim the vandyke beard on our lawn. Of course I got all mine, and I got it good. The result will always live in history side by side with the battle of Gettysburg.

The lawn-mower was sleeping peacefully in the barn when I rushed in and dragged it shriekingly from its slumbers.

Perhaps it was because I forgot to lather the lawn, but any way it was the hardest shave I ever had anything to do with.

That lawn-mower began to complain so loudly that the neighbors for miles around rushed to the rock pile and armed themselves for the fray.

The committee of citizens attracted by the screams of the lawn-mower came over to see if I was killing a member of the family or only a distant relative.

When they saw me boxing the ears of a stubborn lawn-mower they said my punishment was heavy enough, so they threw away the lynching rope and left me at the post.

Clara J. came out on the porch and said, "John, perhaps that lawn-mower would stop screaming if you used a little axle grease!"

"All right," I came back at her, "but it will take me an hour and a half to find out which part of the lawnmower will fit the axle grease."

Then I lifted the machinery up to examine its constitution and by-laws, and about two and a half pounds of wrought iron fell off and landed on my instep.

The wrought iron made good.

Then I tried to stand on the other foot, but I lost my balance and fell on the lawn-mower's third rail.

I never was so mortified in my life as when that lawn-mower began to saw its initials on my shin bones.

Every time I tried to get up I lost my balance, and every time I lost my balance the lawn-mower would leap up in the air and fall on my wish-bone.

When loving hands finally pulled us apart I was two doors and a half below unconsciousness, while the lawnmower had recovered its second wind and was wagging its tail with excitement.

After waiting for about ten minutes for me to come back in the
ring, the lawn-mower got impatient and began to bark at me in
Yiddish, so I decided that our lawn could grow whiskers like a
Populist farmer and be hanged to it.

Another splendid bit of local color in the life of some commuters is the tunnel which runs from Forty-second Street up as far as One Hundred and Fifty in the shade.

A ride through this tunnel on a hot day will put you over on Woosey
Avenue quicker than a No. 9 pill in Hop Lee's smoke factory.

In order to get out to Ruraldene I have to use the tunnel, and every time I use it it leaves something which looks like the mark of Cain across my brow.

The first day I went through that tunnel will always remain one of my hottest memories.

I lost nine pounds of solid flesh somewhere between my shoulder blade and Seventy-ninth Street.

The sensation is the same as a Bad Man's hereafter, including the sulphur.

First I choked up a little, then I coughed, then I stirred uneasily, and then I looked out the window and prayed for the daylight, and then I looked at my newspaper, but I couldn't read it, because the railroad company had found the gas bill pretty heavy last month and they were cutting down expenses.

Then I lost my breath, and when I got it back I found it wasn't mine.

Then I began to fan myself with my hat, but I stopped when the man behind me began to kick because I was handing him more than his just share of the tunnel gas.

Then I began, to choke up again, and then I coughed, and then I could feel something fat and mysterious playing hide and go seek around my brain, but outside all was black as ink, and only from the noise could I tell that the road was still paying dividends.

The air began to get close and thick like a porterhouse steak in a
St. Louis hotel.

I began to breathe like my wife crochets an open-faced stocking—one, two, three, drop one; one, two, three,