"Is id you turn your face to see someding--yes?" she snapped, and the foam builder ducked to the window and began to eat scenery. Dalrymple was almost out; Tod was under the seat sparring for wind; Slim was giving an imitation of a coal-barge in a heavy sea, and the rest of the passengers were in various stages from hiccoughs to convulsions. "Is Boozey comfy wif his 'itty weeny teeny Birdie?" chirped the bride. "Boozey is so happy wif his izzy-wizzy!" gurgled the husband; "how's my 'ittle girley wirly?" "Oh! she's such a happy wappy 'ittle fing!" giggled the dotty dame, pinching her piggie's ear, whereupon the brewer tried to hand the bride another gasoline gaze, but the old lady caught him with the goods: "Is id to my face you go behind my back to make googley-googley eyes ad somevun--yes?" she growled, and in a minute the brewer's brow was busy with the window pane. "Sweetie looks at Petie and Sweetie sees that Petie's p'etty face is getting sunburned, so it is!" cuckooed Mrs. Daffy; "and Sweetie has a dood mind to tiss him, too!" They opened a newspaper, crawled under cover and began to bite each other on the chin. "Go as far as you like!" said Slim, then he went down and out. The man who helped to make Weehawken famous had his head out the window watching for an ice-wagon, and Mrs. Brewer was industriously muttering "Du bist ein Narr. Du bist ein Narr!" Just then the train pulled out and saved our lives. Nick, Tod, Slim and I went over near the water-cooler to rest up, and in a minute the three of them were fanning each other with fairy tales about the goods they sold. I'll back these three boys to dream longer than any other drummers on the track. It's a pipe that they can sell bills to each other all day and never wake up. Slim turned the gas on to the limit about hypnotizing a John Wanamaker merchant prince in Pikesville, Indiana, to the extent of $200 for open-work socks, farmer's size, and Todd Stone sent his balloon up by telling us how he sold the Siegel-Coopers of Bugsport, Iowa, $300 worth of Panama hats for horses. The Hot Air Association was in full session when Buck Jones caromed over from the other end of the car and weighed-in with us. Buck is a sweller. He thinks he strikes twelve on all occasions, but his clock is all to the bad. Buck isn't a drummer--nay! nay! take back your gold! He'll look you straight in the eye and tell you he's a _travelling salesman_--nix on the drummer! I think Buck sells canned shirt waists for the Shine Brothers. Buck's wife and a three-year-old were traveling with him, but he wasn't giving it out through a megaphone. Buck is one of those goose-headed guys who begin to scratch gravel and start in to make a killing every time they see a pretty girl. Across the aisle sat two pet canaries from Plainfield, New Jersey. They were members of the Soubrette Stinging Society and they were en route to the West to join the "Bunch of Birds Burlesque Company."