The inside of the house resembles some place you might bet a man a hundred dollars he daren't spend the night in. Dead men's feet seem to be protruding from behind sofas and there is a damp smell as if the rooms had been closed pending the arrival of the coroner. Junior runs upstairs to see if his switching engine is where he left it and comes falling down stairs panting with terror announcing that there is Something in the guest-room. At that moment there is a sound of someone leaving the house by the back door. Daddy is elected by popular vote to go upstairs and see what has happened, although he insists that he has to wait down stairs as the man with the trunks will be there at any minute. After five minutes of cagey manoeuvering around in the hall outside the guest-room door, he returns looking for Junior, saying that it was simply a pile of things left on the bed covered with a sheet. "Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" Then comes the unpacking. It has been estimated that in the trunks of returning vacationists, taking this section of the country as a whole, the following articles will be pulled out during the next few weeks: Sneakers, full of sand. Bathing suits, still damp from the "one last swim." Dead tennis balls. Last month's magazines, bought for reading in the grove. Shells and pretty stones picked up on the beach for decoration purposes, for which there has suddenly become no use at all. Horse-shoe crabs, salvaged by children who refused to leave them behind. Lace scarfs and shawls, bought from itinerant Armenians. Remnants of tubes formerly containing sunburn ointment, half-filled bottles of citronella and white shoe-dressing. White flannel trousers, ready for the cleaners. Snap-shots, showing Ed and Mollie on the beach in their bathing suits. Snap-shots which show nothing at all. Faded flowers, dance-cards and assorted sentimental objects, calculated to bring up tender memories of summer evenings. Uncompleted knit-sweaters. Then begins the tour of the neighborhood, comparing summer-vacation experiences. To each returning vacationist it seems as if everyone in town must be interested in what he or she did during the summer. They stop perfect strangers on the streets and say: "Well, a week ago today at this time we were all walking up to the Post-Office for the mail. Right out in front of the Post-Office were the fish-houses and you ought to have seen Billy one night leading a lobster home on a string. That was the night we all went swimming by moon-light." "Yeah?" says the stranger, and pushes his way past. Then two people get together who have been to different places. Neither wants to hear about the other's summer--and neither does. Both talk at once and pull snap-shots out of their pockets. "Here's where we used to take our lunch--" "That's nothing. Steve had a friend up the lake who had a launch--" "--and everyday there was something doing over at the Casino--" "--and you ought to have seen Miriam, she was a sight--"