impatiently for more. Indeed, to be quite honest, I should like to try
to eat it all.

Months before our actual departure for the South the day for leaving was
appointed; days before we fixed upon our train; hours before I bought my
ticket. And then, when my trunks had left the house, when my taxicab was
ordered and my faithful battered suitcase stood packed to bulging in the
hall, my companion, the Illustrator, telephoned to say that certain
drawings he must finish before leaving were not done, that he would be
unable to go with me that afternoon, as planned, but must wait until the
midnight train.

Had the first leap been a long one I should have waited for him, but the
distance from New York to the other side of Mason and Dixon's Line is
short, and I knew that he would join me on the threshold of the South
next morning. Therefore I told him I would leave that afternoon as
originally proposed, and gave him, in excuse, every reason I could think
of, save the real one: namely, my impatience. I told him that I wished
to make the initial trip by day to avoid the discomforts of the sleeping
car, that I had engaged hotel accommodations for the night by wire, that
friends were coming down to see me off.

Nor were these arguments without truth. I believe in telling the truth.
The truth is good enough for any one at any time--except, perhaps, when
there is a point to be carried, and even then some vestige of it should,
if convenient, be preserved. Thus, for example, it is quite true that I
prefer the conversation of my fellow travelers, dull though it may be,
to the stertorous sounds they make by night; so, too, if I had not
telegraphed for rooms, it was merely because I had forgotten to--and
that I remedied immediately; while as to the statement that friends were