one!--soup, roast chicken and lamb, green peas, new potatoes, stewed
tomato; all as hot and as perfectly served as if they had been "on dry
land," as Amy phrased it. There was fresh curly lettuce too, with
mayonnaise dressing, and a dessert of strawberries and ice-cream,--the
latter made and frozen on the car, whose resources seemed inexhaustible.
The cook had been attached to Car Forty-seven for some years, and had a
celebrity on his own road for the preparation of certain dishes, which no
one else could do as well, however many markets and refrigerators and
kitchen ranges might be at command. One of these dishes was a peculiar
form of cracked wheat, made crisp and savory after some mysterious
fashion, and eaten with thick cream. Like most _chefs_, the cook liked to
do the things in which he excelled, and finding that it was admired, he
gave the party this delicious wheat every morning.

"The car seems paved with bottles of Apollinaris and with
lemons," wrote Katy to her father. "There seems no limit to the
supply. Just as surely as it grows warm and dusty, and we begin
to remember that we are thirsty, a tinkle is heard, and Bayard
appears with a tray,--iced lemonade, if you please, made with
Apollinaris water with strawberries floating on top! What do you
think of that at thirty miles an hour? Bayard is the colored
butler. The cook is named Roland. We have a fine flavor of peers
and paladins among us, you perceive.

"The first day out was cool and delicious, and we had no dust.
At six o'clock we stopped at a junction, and our car was
detached and run off on a siding. This was because Mr. Dayton
had business in the place, and we were to wait and be taken on
by the next express train soon after midnight. At first they ran
us down to a pretty place by the side of the river, where it was