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“‘My young friend,’ I says when the dust has settled down, ‘the question which you propounded about five minutes ago is now answered in the affirmative. This is where we get off–right here on this identical spot. I don’t know the name of the place,’ I says; ‘maybe it’s so far out in the suburbs that they ain’t found time to get round to it yet and give it a name; but,’ I says, ‘there’s one consolation. By glancing first up this way and then down that way you will observe that from here to the point where the rails meet down yonder is exactly the same distance that it is from here to where the rails meet up yonderways–proving,’ I says, ‘that we are in the exact center of the country. So let us be up and doing,’ I says, ‘specially doing. But the first consideration,’ I say, ‘is vittles.’

“You know me well enough to know,” interjected Mr. Doolan, interrupting the thread of his narrative for a moment and turning to me with a wave of his stout arm, “that I ain’t no glutton. I can eat my grub when it’s set before me or I can let it alone, only I never do. I never begin to think about the next meal till I’m almost through with the last one. And right now my mind seems to dwell on breakfast.

“Well, anyway we arises up and goes away from there, walking in a general direction, and before long we comes to a sign which says we are now approaching the incorporated village of Plentiful Valley–Autos Reduce Speed to Eight Miles an Hour–No Tramps Allowed. I kind of favors the sound of that name–Plentiful Valley. And as I remarks to the Sweet Caps Kid, ‘We ain’t no autos and we ain’t no tramps but merely two professional men, looking for a chance to practise our profession.’

“This here is the first valley I ever see in the course of a long and more or less polka-dotted career that it is all up-hill and never no downhill. Be that as it may, we rambles on until it must be going on towards nine forty-five o’clock, and comes to a neat bungalow on a green slope inside of a high white fence. There’s a venerable party setting on the front porch, in his shirt-sleeves. He looks beneficent and well fed.

“‘Pull down your vest, son-boy,’ I says to Sweet Caps, ‘and please remember not to drink your coffee out of the sasser. I have a growing conviction,’ I says, ‘that we are about to partake of refreshment.’

“‘Hadn’t we better sell this ancient guy a few Bermuda oats, or something to start off with?’ says he.

“‘Not until after we have et,’ I says; business before pleasure. And anyway,’ I says, ‘I works best on a full stomach. Follow your dear uncle,’ I says, ‘and don’t do nothing till you hear from me.’

“With that I opens the gate and we meanders up a neat gravel path. As we draws near, the venerable party takes his feet down off the railings.

“‘Come in,’ he says cordially, ‘come right in and rest your face and hands. You’re out nice and early.’

“‘Suffer us,’ I says, ‘to introduce ourselves. We are a couple of prominent tourist-pedestrians walking from Noo Yawk to Portland, Oregon, on a bet. This,’ I says, pointing to Sweet Caps, ‘is Young Twinkletoes, and I am commonly knowed as old King Lightfoot the First. By an unfortunate coincidence,’ I says, ‘we got separated at an early hour from our provision wagon, as a result of which we have omitted breakfast and feel the omission severely. If we might impose,’ I says, ‘upon your good nature to the extent of–‘

“‘Don’t mention it,’ he says; ‘take two or three chairs and set down, and we’ll talk it over. To tell you the truth,’ he says, ‘I was jest setting here wishing somebody would come along and visit with me a spell. I’m keeping bachelor’s hall,’ he says, ‘and raising chickens on the side, and sometimes I get a mite lonely. I guess maybe the Chink might scare up something, although,’ he says, ‘to tell you the truth there ain’t hardly a bite in the house, except a couple of milk-fed broilers and some fresh tomattuses right out of the garden and a few hot biscuits and possibly some razzberries with cream; for I’m a simple feeder,’ he says, ‘and a very little satisfies me.’