“Yes,” our host explained, in answer to my question. “The top framework is of metal, made extra strong with a block and tackle arrangement for hoisting the bed as soon as it is made each morning. The mattress and springs were made to order and are very light. By disposing of it in this fashion we gain free access to our stores which, as you see, fill the bottom of the wagon. The horse feed is in the rear, our clothing lies in the centre, and the food supplies occupy the front. We have lived entirely out of doors, summer and winter, for two years now, and have suffered practically no inconvenience from bad weather.” “I wouldn’t move into a house again for anything,” his wife exclaimed. “You have no idea what a pleasant life this is. Housework is reduced to almost nothing, we get a chance to see the country and are as free as air.” “Don’t you find it rather crowded at times?” I asked. “Oh, no. Every few days we make a regular camp where we stay for a day or two. Then I get out the portable oven, make a wood fire, bake bread and cake, cook meat and vegetables, wash the clothes, and plan for the next jump.” Our host went to the rear, lifted off the flat top of a fibre trunk, unfolded a set of legs and set it up as a table. Then he lifted out the seat from the second wagon, unloaded three folding camp chairs and proceeded to set the table with white enamel dishes. Meanwhile, the young man, Peter Bates, had come in from caring for the livestock, and was introduced. We all sat down to broiled chicken, boiled potatoes warmed in gravy, hot biscuits and honey, stewed fruit, cookies and tea. The food was delicious. “What do you think of the cooking?” enquired our host, serving us a second helping of chicken. “Not many places where you can get meals like this. We live on the fat of the land the whole year round, don’t we, honey-drips?” “You’re quite right. That’s just what we do. And nothing to worry us, either,” responded his wife. Mine host produced a bottle of port, while Bates brought out cigars. They greeted our pleasant refusal to indulge with uplifted brows, and when Dan passed by the perfectos as well Mr. Adams remarked: “And not even a cigarette? You are a Puritan, if I may be pardoned for saying so. Well, maybe we can do business in spite of handicaps.” He paused to light a cigar, then lounged back in the wagon seat. “I’m a sort of sublimated pedler. I travel from town to town selling a couple of styles of window signs, which our young friend Pete here, puts up for me. Then, to insure continuous action, I take orders for a special lamp and for handy tools—combinations, you know—in the country districts. Thus I am never out of a job. The lamp orders are filled by a mail order house in Chicago, as are the ones for tools, so that I carry nothing but a sample. The signs consist of letters which are pasted on the inner side of the window glass.... You’ve seen them many times.