The young man turned away as if to say, "That will do." He lifted to the seat beside him the smaller of his bags and opened it. Upon the top of a pile of fine, smoothly folded clothes lay three old magazines, bound in pale covers which were now dull with age. In each one he opened to an anonymous article. "The Roses of Pæstum," an essay, was one; "Bitter Bread," a story, was another. The third was a long poem, "Storm." He opened them, evidently without any intention of exhibiting them to his neighbor, but with the purpose of furnishing some reassurance to himself. Having looked at them earnestly one after the other, he returned them to the bag, closed it, and set it on the floor. Once more he appealed to the man behind him. "You're sure you don't know anything about any Evermans?" "I'm afraid I don't, sir. But--" The young man took a little notebook from his pocket and wrote in it a few words which his neighbor, curiously peering over his shoulder, could see plainly. "Approach to shrine. A prophet in his own country." The inscription made the observer feel a vague mortification. "You might ask the conductor," he suggested. "Thank you," was the solemn answer. Then, in slightly uneven script, the stranger added to his notes, "Ask the conductor," and placed an exclamation point after the words. The conductor, approaching from the rear, was halted and the question put. "Did you ever hear the name Basil Everman?" "Never." The conductor also felt a kindly unwillingness to give a negative answer. "But I've only been on this run fifteen years, and my home's at the other end. But you can ask the brakeman; he lives in Waltonville." The young man's notebook was still in his hand. He wrote in it, "Ask the brakeman about B. E., the incomparable," and followed it with three exclamation points. The brakeman answered that he, too, was ignorant of Basil Everman. He perched on the arm of the inquirer's seat. He said that he lived in Waltonville because it was cheaper and his wife liked to keep chickens. He gave various other reasons why his wife liked the country. He preferred the city. When the brakeman had gone, Mr. Illington began to prophesy the probable outcome of the next presidential election, and the young man, making some incoherent excuse, rose to go into the other car. But the other car was crowded, and he had to come back, heavy bags in hand. When Mr. Illington, not in the least offended, asked him whether he was a traveling man, he answered so gruffly that he was left in peace. In spite of the fact that this was the eve of Commencement and that numerous fathers and mothers were to be its guests, the Waltonville Hotel sent no porters to the station to meet the train. It was taken for granted that those persons who were able to travel were able also to carry their hand luggage. Those who had trunks or sample cases sent Black Jerry down from the hotel after they had registered.