“It may not be the Pullman Company’s fault that I don’t sleep well in traveling, but they are certainly to blame for clinging to a type of conveyance specially constructed for the encouragement of dirt and disease. Look at the modern sleeping-car: heavy plush seats; soft hangings; thick carpets; fripperies and fopperies all as gorgeous, vulgar, expensive, tawdry, and filthy as the mind of man can devise. Add to that, windows hermetically sealed in the winter months and you’ve got an ideal contrivance for the encouragement of mortality. Never do I board a sleeper without a stout hickory stick in my suit-case. No matter how low the temperature is, I pry the window of my lower berth open, and push the stick under.” “And sleep in that cold draft!” cried Mrs Clyde. “My dear Mrs. Clyde,” replied the doctor suavely, “will you tell me the difference between a draft and a wind?” “Is it a conundrum?” “No; but I’ll answer it for you. A draft is inside a house; a wind outside. You’re not afraid of wind, are you?” “Of course not.” “Then to you an air-current is like a burglar. It’s harmless enough outside the room, but as soon as it comes through a window and gets into the room, it’s dangerous.” “Sound common sense!” put in Granny Sharpless. “Young man, I believe you’re older than you look.” “I’m old enough to know that pure air is better than foul warm air, anyway. Here; I want you youngsters to understand this,” he added, turning to the children. “When the blood has circulated through the system, doing all the work, it gets tired out and weak. Then the lungs bring air to it to freshen it up, and the oxygen in the air makes it strong to fight against disease and cold. But if the air is bad, the blood becomes half starved. So the man who breathes stuffy, close air all night hasn’t given his blood the right supply. His whole system is weakened, and he ‘catches cold,’ not from too much air, but too little.” “It’s often struck me,” said Mr. Clyde, “that I feel better traveling in Europe than in America. Yet our Pullmans are supposed to be the best in the world.” “The worst!” declared Dr. Strong forcefully. “The best in luxuries, the worst in necessities. The only real good and fairly sanitary cars operated by the Pullman Company, outside of the high-priced stateroom variety, are the second class transcontinentals, the tourist cars. They have straw seats instead of plush; light hangings, and, as a rule, good ventilation. If I go to the Pacific Coast again, it will be that way.” There was a pause, in which rose the clear whisper of Bobs, appealing to his mentor, Julia, for information. “Say, Junkum, how did we get so far away from home?” “High time we came back, isn’t it, Bobs?” approved the doctor. “Well, suppose we return by way of the school-house. All of you go to Number Three but Betsey, don’t you?” “And I’m go-un next year,” announced that young lady.