_If you will permit a newspaper man to go on a second “Pursuit of the Houseboat,” I would like to dedicate this account of a trip to the playground of Pluto to the man who blazed the way to Hell. May I have a shady corner in Hades, with the degree—three above zero—of A. S. S., meaning, of course, member of the Asbestos Society of Sinners?_ _Till death do us unite beyond the Styx, and assuring you of a warm reception, weatherwise and otherwise, when you too shall get a summons from Satan, believe me, happy to go_ _After you, my dear Bangs_, _LAWRENCE DANIEL FOGG_. _Castle Craig, The Hanging Hills, Meriden, Connecticut. All Fools’ Day (April 1)._ * * * * * _My dear Mr. Fogg—Although many critics have given me Hades, I have never recorded any exclusive claim to its possession. You are therefore wholly at liberty to go there yourself—for literary purposes only, I hope—in so far as I am concerned. As for the dedication, I feel highly honored and send you my most cordial thanks for the compliment._ _Faithfully yours_, _JOHN KENDRICK BANGS_. _The Century Association, New York, N. Y. Moving Day (May 1)._ THE SUMMONS FROM SATAN. CHAPTER I. The Summons from Satan. While waiting for an assignment, in the local room of the New York Universe, I began to while away the time by reading the fulsome effusions of the press agent of Greater Luna Park. They aroused in me the spirit of covetousness—I envied the press agent his vocabulary, which put the supply of superlatives into bankruptcy; and I was jealous of the success of Thompson & Dundy, whom I hoped some day to rival. Their first success had come with “A Trip to the Moon;” why might not I— “Go to Hell,” I read on the paper which the “copy” boy just then thrust into my hand. Before I could question him, the “devil” had gone. I glanced suspiciously at my fellow-scribes to see who had perpetrated the joke, if such it was, but no one seemed to be watching what effect the command had upon me. I again examined the odd message. It was in the handwriting of Mr. Burroughs, the city editor, so to him I went. Holding out the slip of paper, I said: “I have just received an assignment to ‘cover’ a certain subterranean resort named after the box in which printers throw battered type, but as the route there is unfamiliar, I have come to you for instructions.” The “czar” of the city room frowned, but on reading the missive the frown was succeeded by an amused smile. “Who gave you this?” he asked. “The ‘devil’.”