I

IN WHICH WE TAKE PASSAGE ON THE LIMITED


It was a December morning,--the Missouri December of mild temperatures
and saturated skies,--and the Chicago and Alton's fast train, dripping
from the rush through the wet night, had steamed briskly to its
terminal track in the Union Station at Kansas City.

Two men, one smoking a short pipe and the other snapping the ash from
a scented cigarette, stood aloof from the hurrying throngs on the
platform, looking on with the measured interest of those who are in
a melee but not of it.

"More delay," said the cigarettist, glancing at his watch. "We are
over an hour late now. Do we get any of it back on the run to Denver?"

The pipe-smoker shook his head.

"Hardly, I should say. The Limited is a pretty heavy train to pick
up lost time. But it won't make any particular difference. The western
connections all wait for the Limited, and we shall reach the seat
of war to-morrow night, according to the Boston itinerary."

Mr. Morton P. Adams flung away the unburned half of his cigarette
and masked a yawn behind his hand.

"It's no end of a bore, Winton, and that is the plain, unlacquered