Usually the discourse ended with a suggestion that if the listener
should ever think of investing a little money in real estate "that'll
be wuth gold dollars to you--yes, sir, gold dollars--" he, Horatio G.
Pulcifer, would be willing to point out and exhibit just the particular
bit of real estate to invest in. He did not reach the climax this time,
however. A gentle nasal sound at his shoulder caused Raish to turn his
head. Mr. Bangs had fallen asleep. Awakened by a vigorous nudge, he
apologized profusely.

"Really," he declared, with much embarrassment, "I--I am quite ashamed
of myself. I--you see--I have, as I say, been somewhat unwell of late,
and the fatigue of walking--I DO hope you will excuse me. I was very
much interested in what you were saying. What--ah--what was it?"

Before Raish could have repeated his real estate sermon, even had he so
desired, the car came to the top of a hill, emerged from the clumps of
pines shutting in the road on both sides, and began to descend a long
slope. And through the fog and blackness at the foot of the slope there
shone dimly first one and then several lights. Mr. Bangs leaned forward
and peered around the edge of the wet windshield.

"Is that it?" he asked, in much the same tone that Mrs. Noah may have
used when her husband announced that the lookout had sighted Ararat.

Raish Pulcifer nodded. "Yes, sir," he declared, proudly. "Yes, sir,
that's East Wellmouth."

The fog in the valley was thicker even than that upon the hill and
East Wellmouth was almost invisible. Mr. Bangs made out a few houses, a
crossroads, a small store, and that was about all. From off to the right