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“Then you are an Englishman?” queried the Traveler who had Bet that way.

“It is not admitted in London,” was the sorrowful Reply. “Sometimes if Frost-Simpson has to come Home for Money while I am visiting Sister, he puts me up at the Clubs and all the Chaps seem to think I am an American. I try to be exactly like them, but I fail. They say I have an Accent, although I have been working all my Life to overcome it. I have not used the word ‘Guess’ for many Years.”

“Yours is a Sad Case,” remarked the Second Traveler. “Why do you ever come back?”

“To collect my Income,” was the Reply. “Isn’t it a Bore? Rents and all that sort of Rot, you know.”

“But you have not settled the Bet,” said one of the Persistent Travelers. “Are you a Yankee?”

“I have never Admitted it, and I cannot do so now,” said the Brother-in-Law of Lord Frost-Simpson. “At the same time, it is on Record that I was born at Pontiac, Michigan. Of course, you know What I am Striving to be. But there must be a Handicap somewhere. During the Two Hundred Years in which my Ancestors temporarily resided in the States, they must have absorbed some of the Characteristics of this Uncouth and Vulgar People, and as a Result the Sins of the Father are visited upon the Child even to the third and fourth Generations, and I cannot hold a Monocle in my Eye to save my Life. I live Abroad, and strive to Forget, and work hard to be just like the other Fellows, but I do not seem to Arrive. Even in this Beastly Country, where the Imitation Article usually passes current as the Real Thing, there seems to be some Doubt as to my Case, seeing that you two Persons have made this Bet. Concerning the Bet, I fear that I am unable to Decide it. I do not know What I am.”

“I know What you are,” said the First Traveler, “but I do not dare to tell you right here in the Car, because the Pullman Company has a Rule against the use of such Language.”

So they declared the Bet off and went forward and sat in the Day Coach.

MORAL: Be Something.