make things move when you start, Marty,--to send a telegram to
Grandmother! Lead me to the nearest place."

Certain that every person in that crowded street saw in them a newly
married couple, Martin tried to hide his joy under a mask of extreme
callousness and universal indifference. With the challenging
antagonism of an English husband,--whose national habit it is
invariably to stalk ahead of his women-kind while they scramble
along at his heels,--he led the way well in advance of his
unblushing bride. But his eyes were black with emotion. He saw
rainbows all over the sky, and rings of bright light round the
square heads of all the buildings which competed in an endeavor to
touch the clouds; and there was a song in his heart.

They sat down side by side in a Western Union office, dallied for a
moment or two with the tied pencils the points of which are always
blunt, and to the incessant longs and shorts of a dozen telegraph
instruments they put their epoch-making news on the neat blanks.
Martin did not intend to be left out of it. His best pal was off the
map, and so he chose a second-best friend and wrote triumphantly:
"Have been married to-day. Staying in New York for honeymoon. How
are you?" He was sorry that he couldn't remember the addresses of a
hundred other men. He felt in the mood to pelt the earth with such
telegrams as that.

"Listen," said Joan, her eyes dancing with misj chief. "I think this
is a pretty good effort: 'Blessings and congratulations on her
marriage to-day may be sent to Mrs. Martin Gray, at 26 East Sixty-
seventh Street, New York.--Joan.' How's that?"