is death and damnation to the soul; but when we got to Manhattan
Transfer he suddenly abandoned his intended plan of there catching
the next train back to the land of Penn. A curious light began to
gleam in his mild eyes; he settled his hat firmly upon his head and
strode out into the Penn Station. "I think I'll go out and look
round a bit," he said. We wonder whether he has gone back yet?


II

The other day we had a chance to go to Philadelphia in the right
way--by the Reading, the P. and R., the Peaceful and Rapid. As one
of our missions in life is to persuade New York and Philadelphia to
love one another, we will tell you about it.

Ah, the jolly old Reading! Take the 10 o'clock ferry from Liberty
Street, and as the _Plainfield_ kicks herself away from the slip
with a churning of cream and silver, study Manhattan's profile in
the downpour of morning sun. That winged figure on the Tel and Tel
Building (the loveliest thing in New York, we insist) is like a huge
and queerly erect golden butterfly perched momently in the blue. The
10:12 train from Jersey City we call the Max Beerbohm Special
because there are Seven Men in the smoker. No, the Reading is never
crowded. (Two more men did get on at Elizabeth.) You can make
yourself comfortable, put your coat, hat, and pipecleaners on one
seat, your books, papers, and matches on another. Here is the stout
conductor whom we used to know so well by sight, with his gold
insignia. He has forgotten that we once travelled with him
regularly, and very likely he wonders why we beam so cheerfully. We
flash down the Bayonne peninsula, with a glimpse of the harbour,