little station-house with a confusion of tongues.

"Attention!" cried Mr. Sieppe, his gold-headed cane in one hand, his
Springfield in the other. "Attention! We depart." The four little boys
moved off ahead; the greyhound suddenly began to bark, and tug at his
leash. The others picked up their bundles.

"Vorwarts!" shouted Mr. Sieppe, waving his rifle and assuming the
attitude of a lieutenant of infantry leading a charge. The party set off
down the railroad track.

Mrs. Sieppe walked with her husband, who constantly left her side
to shout an order up and down the line. Marcus followed with Selina.
McTeague found himself with Trina at the end of the procession.

"We go off on these picnics almost every week," said Trina, by way of a
beginning, "and almost every holiday, too. It is a custom."

"Yes, yes, a custom," answered McTeague, nodding; "a custom--that's the
word."

"Don't you think picnics are fine fun, Doctor McTeague?" she continued.
"You take your lunch; you leave the dirty city all day; you race about
in the open air, and when lunchtime comes, oh, aren't you hungry? And
the woods and the grass smell so fine!"

"I don' know, Miss Sieppe," he answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the
ground between the rails. "I never went on a picnic."

"Never went on a picnic?" she cried, astonished. "Oh, you'll see what