That lawn-mower began to complain so loudly that the neighbors for miles around rushed to the rock pile and armed themselves for the fray. The committee of citizens attracted by the screams of the lawn-mower came over to see if I was killing a member of the family or only a distant relative. When they saw me boxing the ears of a stubborn lawn-mower they said my punishment was heavy enough, so they threw away the lynching rope and left me at the post. Clara J. came out on the porch and said, "John, perhaps that lawn-mower would stop screaming if you used a little axle grease!" "All right," I came back at her, "but it will take me an hour and a half to find out which part of the lawnmower will fit the axle grease." Then I lifted the machinery up to examine its constitution and by-laws, and about two and a half pounds of wrought iron fell off and landed on my instep. The wrought iron made good. Then I tried to stand on the other foot, but I lost my balance and fell on the lawn-mower's third rail. I never was so mortified in my life as when that lawn-mower began to saw its initials on my shin bones. Every time I tried to get up I lost my balance, and every time I lost my balance the lawn-mower would leap up in the air and fall on my wish-bone. When loving hands finally pulled us apart I was two doors and a half below unconsciousness, while the lawnmower had recovered its second wind and was wagging its tail with excitement. After waiting for about ten minutes for me to come back in the ring, the lawn-mower got impatient and began to bark at me in Yiddish, so I decided that our lawn could grow whiskers like a Populist farmer and be hanged to it. Another splendid bit of local color in the life of some commuters is the tunnel which runs from Forty-second Street up as far as One Hundred and Fifty in the shade. A ride through this tunnel on a hot day will put you over on Woosey Avenue quicker than a No. 9 pill in Hop Lee's smoke factory. In order to get out to Ruraldene I have to use the tunnel, and every time I use it it leaves something which looks like the mark of Cain across my brow. The first day I went through that tunnel will always remain one of my hottest memories. I lost nine pounds of solid flesh somewhere between my shoulder blade and Seventy-ninth Street. The sensation is the same as a Bad Man's hereafter, including the sulphur. First I choked up a little, then I coughed, then I stirred uneasily, and then I looked out the window and prayed for the daylight, and then I looked at my newspaper, but I couldn't read it, because the railroad company had found the gas bill pretty heavy last month and they were cutting down expenses. Then I lost my breath, and when I got it back I found it wasn't mine. Then I began to fan myself with my hat, but I stopped when the man behind me began to kick because I was handing him more than his just share of the tunnel gas.