“‘I know you’ll love the Adirondacks. Just think! In six weeks and two days you’ll be here. By the way, you must remember not to speak of coming “up” to the Adirondacks, or going down from them. Nobody does. They all speak of coming “in” and going “out”. I don’t know why. Neither does anyone I ask. Perhaps that’s the reason. I’m saving all the beautifullest places to show you. The prettiest rows, the wildest trails. Perhaps we can see a deer. Wouldn’t it be fun? I do so want to see one before I go. And we’ll climb Blue Mountain and make the trip through the chain of lakes, too. Can’t you come earlier than you planned? I hate to think you’re missing all this glorious time.’” “An’ a lot of the same sort,” added Caleb, folding and putting away the letter with unconscious tenderness, “Writes dandy letters, don’t she? But it don’t make sense to me. So far’s I can see, there’s nothin’ to do but get cats drunk and watch camp fires an’ get all het up by rowin’ an’ climbin’ hills. Where’s the fun in all that for a grown man?” “Miss Shevlin will be there,” suggested Caine. “Course she will,” said Caleb, “Otherwise, d’you s’pose I’d waste my time goin’? I wonder how I was ever jollied into promisin’.” “Conover,” remarked Caine, rising to leave, “You may have spent a long time learning to read men; but what you don’t know about women--and about yourself, for that matter--would fill a Carnegie Library. Goodnight.” CHAPTER XIX ON THE TOP OF THE WORLD Conover woke from a quaint dream of being buried alive in an ill-fitting coffin. And dawning consciousness proved the dream to have been but a mild exaggeration. For he was ensconced in a sleeping car berth. Gray light was peeping through the lowered shade. Much-breathed air, mingled with black dust pressed down upon the Fighter’s lungs. From a nearby section came the fretful whine of a baby. The stiff berth-curtains swished awkwardly inward and out, to the swing of the car. Caleb performed, with ease born of long practise, that contortionist feat known as “Dressing in the berth.” Then, scrambling out, he lurched down the narrow, dark aisle toward the washroom at the rear. The place was already full of half-clad, red-eyed, touseled men. Some were washing, others painfully scraping lather from their jaws with safety razors; still others ransacking bag or suit case for clean linen. One early bird had completed his toilet and was lounging in a leather-and-wicker chair, trying to translate a pink time table; meanwhile industriously filling the semi-airtight compartment with cigarette smoke.