At the beginning of the Third Season we find him steering a long, low, rakish Chariot of Fire, with a Clock, a Trunk-Rack, an Emergency Ice- Box and all the other Comforts of Home. He had learned to smell a Constable a Mile off and whenever he ran up behind a Pewee Coffee- Grinder he went into the High and made the Cheap Machine look like a Fish. Whenever the Bobbler pointed to anything short of 40 he felt that he was just the same as standing still. He loved to throw open the Muffler and hit the High Spots, never stopping until the Wheels became clogged up with Live Stock and Poultry. One day while he was breezing along the Pike at the easy Clip usually maintained by the Twentieth Century Limited, he heard behind him a low and sullen Roar, as of the Wind playing through 1,000 Pine Trees, and something Gray and about as long-waisted as a Torpedo Boat shot past him and went over the Hill. He fell forward on the Wheel and began to Weep. He had been Shown Up. He knew that he could never look his Fellow-Man in the Eye until he traded in and got a Six with enough Power to jump Small Streams and Climb Trees. At last he appeared on the Road with the Real Thing. It had Armor Plate all over it and a 10-foot Cow Catcher in front, and the Driver had to sit on the Small of his Back and wear a Helmet. The Morning he ran it out of the Garage a Prominent Insurance Company foreclosed on the Farm, but he was in a cheery Mood, for he knew he could cut Rings around any other Balloon in the County. One Morning he went around a Curve on Two Wheels and tried to dislodge a New Bridge turned out by the Steel Trust and imbedded in solid Concrete. A Neighbor went to the Widow and said: "I have Sad News for you. Your Husband has gone to his Reward." "When did he start?" asked the Bereaved Woman. "At Ten Thirty-Eight," was the Reply. "What Time is it Now?" "It lacks Four Minutes of being Eleven o'Clock." "Well," she remarked, in a Relieved Tone, "He must be There by this Time, unless he has had a Puncture." MORAL: The Cocaine and Morphine Habits can be Cured. COGNIZANT OF OUR SHORTCOMINGS On the deck of a Trans-Atlantic Skiff, a certain Old Traveler, who owed allegiance to George and Mary, reclined on his Cervical Vertebrae with a Plaid Shawl across him and roasted Our Native Land. He told the American in the next Steamer Chair that he had been unable to get his Tea at the usual Hour, and out in the place called Minnie- Apples the stupid Waiter never had heard of Bloaters for Breakfast. Furthermore, he had not seen his Boots again after placing them outside the Door in Chicago. The Houses were overheated and the Railway Carriages were not like those at Home, and the Reporters were Forward Chaps, and Ice should not be added with the Soda, because it was not being Done.