“Have you any definite work planned for, yet?” “No, but I thought I’d go out this afternoon and see what I might pick up. I could keep this room and board myself, Thropper.” He made a wry face, and blurted out: “Warmed over canned beans, ugh!” “What do you mean, old fellow?” “Boarding yourself--canned soups, canned meats, canned everything--ugh!” “That’s what your wife will feed you on--at first, while she learns to cook, Thropper,” I laughed. “Perhaps you’ll prefer canned things!” “Is that so?” he retorted, with some show of heat. “Well, that’s all you know about things. _She_ can cook already: you just wait till you taste some of her cooking. Canned things--ugh!” “Well,” I sighed, “I’ve little choice!” “How would you like to spend the summer at a neat little hotel in Michigan?” “Thropper!” “And room in a little cottage in the midst of a little grove of pines, near little sandhills, among a little group of the finest fellows in the world--college students?” continued Thropper, with a smile. “A little bit too much imagination in your little talk, my dear little fellow!” I retorted. “And go down to the beach every day for a bath among the big waves, and go boating and fishing; seeing the great crowds of excursionists and vacationists!” “Go on,” I gasped, “have it out, Thropper, if you particularly enjoy the stunt!” “Food,” continued my roommate, “well, let me see: strawberry shortcake à la much, mutton chops with bacon à la juicy, calves’ brains on toast à la delicious, hashed browned potatoes à la second helping, and for desserts: cream and jellies, sherberts and pies--” “--À la imagination, eh, Thropper,” I interrupted. My roommate’s rugged face was overspread with a grin. He clapped me over the shoulder and said, continuing his whim: “To enjoy many beautiful, moon-lit hours, watching the glint of the phosphorescent waves as they twinkle like fairy lights over the broad expanse of Lake Michigan; to--” “Look out, Thropper,” I exclaimed at this poetic outburst, “or you’ll be crowding the spring poets out of a job!” “To roam at will through the shady groves, over the sand dunes, to hear the orchestral music, the light plash of the waves against the pier while you hold a fish-line in the water; to loll on the fragrant pine needles and read, muse, rest, and be inspired: what do you think of that for a program for the next three months, Priddy?” “Ask a Mohammedan what he thinks of Paradise or an exiled Prince what he thinks of a Kingdom, Thropper?” “Then,” continued Thropper, “the whole experience not to cost you a cent: rather you are to be paid at the rate of four dollars a week: wages for a treat like that, Priddy: what do you think of _that_?” “It is impossible for me to think about such a prospect, Thropper, my imagination is intoxicated!” “Then you will go!” I looked at Thropper as if he had parted with his senses. “What an actor you are, Thropper. One would imagine you serious in all this!”