so on the card," and I shoves the postal at him.

"Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck," says he. "Postmarked Boothbay Harbor,
isn't it? Bath for yours. Change there for steamer. Upper's the best
I can do for you--drawing rooms all gone."

"Seein' how my private car's bein' reupholstered, I'll chance an
upper," says I. "Only don't put any nose trombone artist underneath."

Yes, I was feelin' some gayer than a few hours before. What did I care
if the old town was warmin' up as we pulls out until it felt like a
Turkish bath? I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suit
and three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin' kale
buttoned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee's stowed away
careful. Say, I should worry! And don't they do some breezin' along
on that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though?

"What cute little village is this?" says I to Rastus in the washroom
next mornin' about six-thirty A. M.

"Pohtland, Suh," says he. "Breakfast stop, Suh."

"Me for it, then," says I. "When in Maine be a maniac." So I tackles
a plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie. M-m-m-m!
They sure can build pie up there!

It's quite some State, Maine. Bath is several jumps on, and that next
joint---- Say, it wa'n't until I'd changed to the steamer and was
lookin' over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name.
Boothbay! Why, wa'n't that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from?