poet. "You're all coming home with me, aren't you?" he said. "I got your
telegram this morning. We'd be delighted to have you."

"It's awfully good of you," said the poet, "but as a matter of fact
we're going straight on to the country to-morrow morning. My wife has
some relatives in Yonkers, wherever they are, and she and the children
are going to stay with them. I've got to go up to Harvard to give some
lectures."

A rush of cool, sweet relief bathed Stockton's brow.

"Why, I'm disappointed you're going right on," he stammered. "Mrs.
Stockton and I were hoping--"

"My dear fellow, we could never impose such a party on your
hospitality," said Verne. "Perhaps you can recommend us to some quiet
hotel where we can stay the night."

Like all New Yorkers, Stockton could hardly think of the name of any
hotel when asked suddenly. At first he said the Astor House, and then
remembered that it had been demolished years before. At last he
recollected that a brother of his from Indiana had once stayed at the
Obelisk.

After the customs formalities were over--not without embarrassment, as
Mr. Verne's valise when opened displayed several pairs of bright red
union suits and a half-empty bottle of brandy--Stockton convoyed them to
a taxi. Noticing the frayed sleeve of the poet's ulster he felt quite
ashamed of the aggressive newness of his clothes. And when the visitors
whirled away, after renewed promises for a meeting a little later in the