“I have buyers,” he said, “for the nine church lots at the advanced price.” Considering that the land practically cost us nothing, we made one hundred and six thousand dollars on the Cloverdale deal. Perkins and I were out that way lately; and there is still nothing on the land but the Club-house, which needs paint and new glass in the windows. When we reached the Fifth Street Church, we paused, and Perkins took off his hat. It was a noble instinct, for here was one church that never quarrelled with its pastor, to which all creeds were welcome, and that had no mortgage. “Some of these days,” said Perkins, “we will build the tabernacle. We will come out and carry on our great work of uniting the sects. We will build a city here, surrounded by an ennobling religious atmosphere--a refined, exclusive city. The time is almost ripe. By the time these lot-holders pay another tax assessment, they will be sick enough. We can get the lots for almost nothing.” V. THE ADVENTURE IN AUTOMOBILES PERKINS and I sat on the veranda of one of the little road-houses on Jerome Avenue, and watched the auto-mobiles go by. There were many automobiles, of all sorts and colors, going at various speeds and in divers manners. It was a thrilling sight--the long rows of swiftly moving auto-vehicles running as smoothly as lines of verse, all neatly punctuated here and there by an automobile at rest in the middle of the road, like a period bringing the line to a full stop. And some, drawn to the edge of the road, stood like commas. There were others, too, that went snapping by with a noise like a bunch of exclamation-points going off in a keg. And not a few left a sulphurous, acrid odor, like the after-taste of a ripping Kipling ballad. I called Perkins's attention to this poetical aspect of the thing, but he did not care for it. He seemed sad. The sight of the automobiles aroused an unhappy train of thought in his mind. Perkins is the advertising man. Advertising is not his specialty. It is his life; it is his science. That is why he is known from Portland, Me., to Portland, Oreg., as Perkins the Great. There is but one Perkins. A single century could never produce two such as he. The job would be too big. “Perky,” I said, “you look sad.” He waved his hand toward the procession of horseless vehicles, and nodded. “Sad!” he ejaculated. “Yes! Look at them. You are looking at them. Everybody looks at them. Wherever you go you see them--hear them--smell them. On every road, in every town--everywhere--nothing but automobiles; nothing but people looking at them--all eyes on them. I'm sad!” “They are beautiful,” I ventured, “and useful.” Perkins shook his head. “Useless! Wasted! Thrown away! Look at them again. What do you see?” He stretched out his hand toward the avenue. I knew Perkins wanted me to see something I could not see, so I looked long enough to be quite sure I could not see it; and then I said, quite positively,-- “I see automobiles--dozens of them.”