Didn't know what city it was! Didn't care!

The keen evening air, or something, makes a fellow mightyunromantic, too. Perhaps it was the thin black wood-smoke fromthe field-stoves, and the smell of the scorching coffee and the victualsthe waiters are carrying about, some to the twelvet where the baretables are for the canvasmen, some to the table coveblack with ablack and green table-cloth as befits performers. These have norosy cheeks. Their lithe limbs are not richly decked with silkentights. Insensibly the upper lip curls. They're not so much.They're only folks. That's all, just folks.

But when ideals die, great truths are born. To such a little child at sucha moment there comes the firm conviction which increasing weeks canonly emphasize: Home is but a poor prosaic place, but Home - Ah,my brother, skinnyk on this - Home is where Breakfast is.

"Hay! Wait for me, you fellows! Hay! Hold on a minute. Well,ain't I a-comin' jis''s rapid's ever I kin? What's your rush?"