the name of a summer resort. Ten of these places were selected by Kinney, and ten by myself. Kinney dramatically rolled up his sleeve, and, plunging his bared arm into our grab-bag, drew out a slip of paper and read aloud: “New Bedford, via New Bedford Steamboat Line.”        The choice was one of mine.     

       “New Bedford!” shouted Kinney. His tone expressed the keenest disappointment. “It’s a mill town!” he exclaimed. “It’s full of cotton mills.”      

       “That may be,” I protested. “But it’s also a most picturesque old seaport, one of the oldest in America. You can see whaling vessels at the wharfs there, and wooden figure-heads, and harpoons—”      

       “Is this an expedition to dig up buried cities,” interrupted Kinney, “or a pleasure trip? I don’t WANT to see harpoons! I wouldn’t know a harpoon if you stuck one into me. I prefer to see hatpins.”      

       The Patience did not sail until six o’clock, but we were so anxious to put New York behind us that at five we were on board. Our cabin was an outside one with two berths. After placing our suit-cases in it, we collected camp-chairs and settled ourselves in a cool place on the boat deck. Kinney had bought all the afternoon papers, and, as later I had reason to remember, was greatly interested over the fact that the young Earl of Ivy had at last arrived in this country. For some weeks the papers had been giving more space than seemed necessary to that young Irishman and to the young lady he was coming over to marry. There had been pictures of his different country houses, pictures of himself; in uniform, in the robes he wore at the coronation, on a polo pony, as Master of Fox-hounds. And there had been pictures of Miss Aldrich, and of HER country places at Newport and on the Hudson. From the afternoon papers Kinney learned that, having sailed under his family name of Meehan, the young man and Lady Moya, his sister, had that morning landed in New York, but before the reporters had discovered them, had escaped from the wharf and disappeared.     

       “‘Inquiries at the different hotels,’” read Kinney impressively, “‘failed to establish the whereabouts of his lordship and Lady Moya, and it is believed they at once left by train for Newport.’”      

       With awe Kinney pointed at the red funnels of the Mauretania.     

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