He expected to reach his destination by ten o'clock, but there was a freight wreck on the road. As a result he spent five hours at a sad little way station, and when the line resumed its functions as a common carrier, he took the afternoon train that had just pulled in. He first sought the parlor-car, which he found occupied by three ladies; then in rather low spirits, his mind divided between thoughts of the luncheon he had not had and the dinner he would order at The Pines, he wandered on into the smoker. Near the door were four men playing cards. There next fell under his scrutiny a young fellow of five or six and twenty, who was reading a shabby volume of Emerson. Three seats farther on was the only other passenger in the car, a solidly built man of sixty with a pleasant ruddy face; he was dressed in black broadcloth and wore a high silk hat, and as Ames dropped into the seat opposite him he gave the News man a half smile of friendly recognition. There was something so genial and winning in his very air that Ames smiled in return. “Sightly, ain't it?” and the silk hat dipped in the direction of the autumn landscape, where the brown fields yielded at intervals to gorgeous reds and russets set in a murky haze. Ames admitted the beauty, and the stranger took the cigar from between his strong even teeth. “Fond of nature?” he inquired. In a general way Mr. Ames was, but he was not enthusiastic about it; indeed, he was so profoundly sophisticated that sensation of any sort reached him in a very diluted form. The elder man scanned the younger; then he drew from the region of his hip a flat leather pocketbook. It yielded up a square of pasteboard which he passed across the aisle to Ames, who read: “Jeremiah Carveth. Originator Plymouth Rock Dollar Shirt. 'Made on Honor.'.rdquo; “By Jove!” cried Ames. “You're just the man I want to see, Mr. Carveth. I'm from the News.” “Are you now?” Mr. Carveth was frankly pleased. “What's your name?” “Ames—Bentley Ames.” “Excuse me—” and Mr. Carveth turned in his seat. “Willie, step here!” he called, and the reader of Emerson put aside his book. “Mr. Ames, I want you should know my secretary, W. C. B. McPherson, William Cullen Bryant McPherson,” said Mr. Carveth, when the secretary stood at his elbow. “He's a newspaper boy, too—does the locals on the Marysville Clarion. Mr. Ames, of the Capital City News, Willie.” W. G. B. McPherson gave Ames an embarrassed smile. “Not a newspaper man in the sense that Mr. Ames is.” It was evident he stood in awe of this more metropolitan member of the craft. “I don't know about that,” said Mr. Carveth. “I've always considered the Clarion a mighty clean sheet.” Ames smiled enigmatically. He was thinking of Mr. Carveth's rival, General Pogue, “Slippery Dick, who lived with his ear next the ground,” and of James Cartwright Smith, who was back of the general. Carveth resumed the conversation. “Ever been to Marysville? It's named after my wife; my factory's there.”