his memory.

* * * * * * *

The Duke of Dulham had landed in New York five days before
and had looked round eagerly for a field of turnips, but
hadn't seen any. He had been driven up Fifth Avenue and
had kept his eyes open for potatoes, but there were none.
Nor had he seen any shorthorns in Central Park, nor any
Southdowns on Broadway. For the Duke, of course, like
all dukes, was agricultural from his Norfolk jacket to
his hobnailed boots.

At his restaurant he had cut a potato in two and sent
half of it to the head waiter to know if it was Bermudian.
It had all the look of an early Bermudian, but the Duke
feared from the shading of it that it might be only a
late Trinidad. And the head waiter sent it to the chef,
mistaking it for a complaint, and the chef sent it back
to the Duke with a message that it was not a Bermudian
but a Prince Edward Island. And the Duke sent his
compliments to the chef, and the chef sent his compliments
to the Duke. And the Duke was so pleased at learning this
that he had a similar potato wrapped up for him to take
away, and tipped the head waiter twenty-five cents,
feeling that in an extravagant country the only thing to
do is to go the people one better. So the Duke carried
the potato round for five days in New York and showed it
to everybody. But beyond this he got no sign of agriculture
out of the place at all. No one who entertained him seemed