Breakfast was ready, and for the first time on the trip Mr. Hanson ate with a confidence of the future. For the first time he ordered food that was good for him. Previously it hadn’t mattered. When we went back on deck, the world’s largest open-face clock was on our left, and on our right the business district of Pelham’s biggest suburb. And immediately surrounding us were Peter James and Ring Once and the lounge steward and the deck steward and the dining-room stewards--in fact, all the stewards we’d seen and a great many we hadn’t. “We’re trapped,” said Mr. Hanson. “Our only chance for escape is to give them all we’ve got. Be ready with your one-pounders and your silver pieces.” At the end of this unequal conflict--the Battle of the Baltic--Rear-Admiral Lardner’s fleet was all shot to pieces, most of them the size of a dime, and when Mr. Brennan of Yonkers announced that his car would meet the ship and that he would gladly give me a ride to my hotel I could have kissed him on both cheeks. It took my customs inspector about a minute to decide that I was poor and honest. The baroness, though, when we left the dock, was engaged in argument with half a dozen officials, who must have been either heartless or blind. Mr. Brennan’s chauffeur drove queerly. He insisted on sticking to the right side of the street, and slowed up at busy intersections, and he even paid heed to the traffic signals. In Paris or London he’d have been as much at home as a Mexican at The Hague. The hotel gave me a room without making me tell my age or my occupation or my parents’ birthplace. The room has a bath, and the bath has two water faucets, one marked hot and one marked cold, and when you turn the one marked hot, out comes hot water. And there’s no Peter James around to make you bathe when you don’t feel the need. The room has a practical telephone too, and pretty soon I’m going to start calling up acquaintances with kind hearts and good cooks. The first who invites me to dinner is in tough luck. _Friday, October 5. Chicago._ “Miner” Brown, the great three-fingered pitcher, used to be asked the same questions by every one to whom he was introduced. As a breath-saving device he finally had some special cards printed. On one side was his name. On the other the correct replies: 1. Because I used to work in a mine. 2. It was cut off in a factory when I was a kid. 3. At Terre Haute, Ind. 4. Rosedale, right near Terre Haute. 5. Not a bit. When he left home in the morning he was always supplied with fifty of these cards, and sometimes he got rid of the whole supply before bedtime. * * * * * I departed from New York Wednesday night. Our train picked up the New York Baseball Club at Philadelphia. I was acquainted with about fifteen of the twenty (odd) athletes. Every one of the fifteen, from Mr. Zimmerman down, shot the same queries at me. Every person I’ve encountered here at home too, and usually in the same order: