“Have to run for it,” he panted, as we gained the platform, and we did, and we got in the train none too soon. I love getting trains that way, but Mr. Wake didn’t seem to care for it so much, because after he had tossed the facchino some coins, and put our bags up on the shelf that is over the seats, he dropped down opposite me, took off his hat, fanned himself with it, and then wiped the perspiration from his brow. “Getting old,” he said, but I shook my head, because my father is a doctor and I knew why he was out of breath. “You’re just a little overweight,” I said, and I couldn’t help looking at his stomach which stuck out. He saw me do it and he laughed and I liked the little wrinkles that stood out boldly for that moment, around his eyes. “You know,” he confided, “I’ve been trying to gain the courage to do something about it, but every one--up to this moment--has discouraged me! I’d get my mouth set for long walks and short rations, and then some one would say, ‘Oh, stuff, you’re just right--’” “Did they _really_?” I questioned, because I could hardly believe it, and again he laughed. “_Really, Jane!_” he answered. “Well,” I commented, “although you are not really fat, you’re too fat for your height. And you puffed like the dickens after that run, and it wasn’t _anything_.” And then I broke off with, “What’s that?” for a horn of the prettiest, clear tone had tooted, and it made me wonder. “Horn,” said Mr. Wake, “they do that in the stations before the trains pull out; haven’t any bells over here, you know. . . . Now watch this start--smooth as glass; no jolts! Government over _here_ seems to know how to run railroads.” I smiled, because I thought that any government should be able to run the funny little trains that looked as if they ought to be running around a Christmas tree, and as if they would fall off at every curve, to lie, feet up, buzzing until some one started them on again. Mr. Wake saw my smile, and I was glad he did, because what it led him to say helped me lots later. “Think they’re funny?” he asked. “They look as if they ought to be full of pine needles,” I answered. “You know how the needles begin to drop all over the Christmas tree yard about the second of January?” “Of course they look like that,” he answered, “we got our patterns for toys, with many another thing, from this side of the pond. . . . My child, a great many Americans come over here, and derive real benefit; they see things that are beautiful and rare, but their gratitude is of a strange variety, for they evidence it only with bragging.” I felt flat. I said so.