"Yes, he's a Western man, all right. I met them on the Vesper Bridge,"
replied Boland absently, ignoring the banter. He got to his feet and
spoke with dreamy animation. "Ferdie, that chap made me feel homesick
with just one look at him. Best time I ever had was with that sort.
Younger men I was running with, of course. Fine chaps; splendidly
educated and perfect gentlemen when sober--I quote from an uncredited
quotation from a copy of an imitation of a celebrated plagiarist. Would
go back there and stay and stay, only for the lady mother. She's used to
the city.... By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept."

"Hi!" said Ferdie. "Party yellin' at you from the road. Come out of your
trance."

Francis Charles looked up. A farmer had stopped his team by the front
gate.

"Mr. Boland!" he trumpeted through his hands.

Boland answered the hail and started for the gate, Ferdie following; the
agriculturist flourished a letter, dropped it in the R.F.D. box, and
drove on.

"Oh, la, la! The thick plottens!" observed Ferdie.

Francis Charles tore open the letter, read it hastily, and turned with
sparkling eyes to his friend. His friend, for his part, sighed
profoundly.

"Oh Francis, Francis!" he chided.