At a few minutes past three o’clock on a particularly warm afternoon in late September of last year three boys removed themselves and their luggage from the top of a Fifth Avenue stage in New York City and set forth eastward along Forty-second Street. Although decidedly dissimilar in looks and slightly dissimilar in build, they showed, nevertheless, a certain uniformity of carriage and action and, to a lesser degree, of attire. There was nothing strange in that, however, since, for the last two years, at least, they had spent nine months of the twelve in the same place, at the same pursuits and under the same discipline. The likeness of attire was less in material and color than in a certain tasteful avoidance of the extremes. Joe Myers and Martin Proctor wore blue serge and Bob Newhall a brownish-gray tweed, and in no case was the coat snugged in to the figure or adorned with a belt in conformity to the dictums of the Rochester school of sartorial art. Joe and Bob wore gray-and-gold ribbons about their straw hats, Martin a plain black. Each of the three carried a brown leather suitcase, and, had you looked closely, you would have discovered on each bag, amongst numerous other labels, a gray triangle bearing two A’s in gold snuggled together in a pyramid-shaped monogram. At Grand Central Station they crossed the street, showing a superb indifference to the traffic. The driver of a pumpkin-hued taxi-cab, whose countenance and manner of driving suggested that he had cut many notches in his steering-wheel, yielded to a momentary weakness and jammed on his emergency brake, thereby allowing the three boys to step calmly and unhurriedly from his path. They seemed not to have observed their danger, and yet, having gained the sidewalk unharmed, one of them turned and rewarded the taxi man with a grave wink which threw the latter into a state of apoplectic anger. “Guess,” observed Bob with a chuckle, “we spoiled his entire day!” “Don’t worry,” responded Martin. “He’ll kill enough to make up for losing us!” Inside the station, they turned their steps toward the right and set their bags down near one of the ticket windows. “You get them, Joe,” said Bob. “Here’s mine.” He proffered a five-dollar bill, but Joe waved it aside. “I’ll pay for them and you can settle on the train. I’ll get all mixed up if you give me the money now.” He took a rather fat wallet from an inner pocket of his coat and stepped into the line leading to the nearest wicket. The others moved their own suitcases and Joe’s out of the way of the passers and settled themselves to wait. Martin compared the watch on his wrist with the station clock and yawned. “Nearly twelve minutes yet,” he observed. Bob nodded. “What about parlor-car seats?” he asked. “There aren’t any on this train.” “Why not?”