that or you may be sorry for it some day." He sniffed eagerly. "Ah!" he
exclaimed, "just smell that, will you? Ain't that FINE?"

"Humph! that's the flats. You can smell 'em any time when the tide's out
and the wind's right. You see, the tide goes out pretty fur here and--"

"Don't I know it? Son, I've been waitin' thirty odd year for that smell
and here 'tis at last. Drive slow and let me fill up on it. Just blow
that--that Snowstorm of yours the other way for a spell, won't you?
Thanks."

The request to be driven slow was so superfluous that Mr. Lumley paid
no attention to it. He puffed industriously at the Snowflake and watched
his companion, who, leaning forward on the seat, was gazing out at
the town and the bay beyond it. The "depot hill" is not as high as
Whittaker's Hill, but the view is almost as extensive.

"Excuse me, Mister," observed Gabe, after an interval, "but you ain't
said where you're goin'."

The passenger came out of his day dream with a start.

"Why, that's right!" he exclaimed. "So I haven't! Well, now, where would
you go, if you was me? Is there a hotel or tavern or somethin'?"

"Yup. There's the Bayport Hotel. 'Tain't exactly a hotel, neither. We
call it the perfect boardin' house 'round here. You see--"

He proceeded to tell the story of "the perfect boarding house." His
listener seemed greatly interested, and although he laughed, did not