I had no sooner got a cork belt properly adjusted, as I thought, than the ferryboat sank. The suction drew me down and down and down; then I shot up to the surface again, feet foremost. I expected that the life belt would right me as soon as I came to the surface, but as I continued to hang head downward, the awful truth flashed over me—the belt had not been sufficiently tightened under my arms and had slipped down. Convulsively I struggled, but in the effort only succeeded in swallowing more water. The blur of a thousand lights danced before my eyes in the floating bubbles of the phosphorescent water, a roar as of a mighty artillery thundered in my ears—then all became a blank; in newspaper parlance, I had ceased to be “live matter.” That sinking fund with which I had provided myself before leaving the mundane earth must have carried me a long distance downward, for when I opened my eyes I was upon the banks of the River Styx. Presently Charon’s yacht came in sight. There was no one on board but Captain Charon himself, for with the exception of Lazarus, John Kendrick Bangs, and myself, no round trip tickets have ever been issued to Hades. “Step lively, please,” yelled Charon, who had evidently been a Broadway trolley conductor earlier in his career. His success in knocking down fares had prompted Satan to employ him to transfer “fares” over the River Styx. The American invasion has extended downward as well as outward. To hear the motto of New York on the banks of the Styx made me feel quite at home, especially when Charon added: “Plenty of room up front.” A number of shades had stepped aboard the yacht. I was following them when Charon halted me. “Stop your whistling,” he commanded. “Do you think this is a Sunday school picnic or a political rally? I don’t believe you are eligible for the journey, anyway. Hades is the only place within the fifty-mile limit that is not a side show for New York tourists. This yacht transports shades only.” “Well, you see,” I began hesitatingly, “Lorimer says clothes don’t make the man, but that they make three-fourths of him, and this suit is of the very latest shade of blue.” “I’ve been told gray is fashionable just now,” he commented, critically. “Everybody in Hades has the blues, so you won’t be off color,” he added, somewhat mollified. “Then you know my ancestors are all shades,” I pleaded, “and our city editor says I have a shady reputation.” “A newspaper man!” Charon gasped, his face growing pale. “I’ll have to let you come aboard, or you will go back and ‘roast’ me, and I get all the ‘roasting’ I can stand in Hades between trips. A newspaper man! “Nuff said. Jump aboard.” “Where is the house-boat?” I asked, ever on the lookout for “copy.”