Wellmouth and I've lived here for fifty-two year and if anybody should ask me what I thought of the place I'd tell 'em—”
He proceeded to tell what he would tell 'em. It was a favorite topic with him, especially in the summer and with visitors from the city. 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 a tremendous bellow sounded. The fog seemed to quiver with it.
“WHAT is that?” asked Mr. Bangs, nervously. “I've heard it ever since I left the train, I believe. Some sort of a—ah—steam whistle, isn't it?”
“Foghorn over to the light,” replied Raish, briskly. “Well, sir, here you
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