"The men like it because it gives them a chance to hug the girls, the girls like it because it gives them a chance to get hugged." Viewed vertically, from the altitude of personal dignity, such license takes a coloring by no means pleasant. Viewed horizontally, it becomes a mere convention. To the popular mind the caress means no more than the mildly affectionate phrases with which we begin and end our letters.

But what went ye out for to see? Youthful gaucherie repressed in an amusement park? Say, rather, youthful gaucherie granted full freedom, and neither more nor less uncouth here than elsewhere. The park was not founded for the culture of decorum; it was founded for the culture of wild hilarity, in which mission it brilliantly and gloriously succeeds. It is the gayer too, by reason of its moral cleanness. Its laundered diversions attract a laundered constituency; and if it refuses to sell liquor (some parks do refuse), it expunges those hints of wrong-doing, which for all their bravado never fail to depress; and although its little shams and booby-traps need ethical tinkering here and there, they usually give the gullible their money's worth; a permanent amusement park can't afford out-and-out swindles. Still, I sometimes fear it's an economic nuisance. Adding up your expenditures, you perceive that an evening's frolic has cost as much as a ticket for "Lohengrin," or two for "Candida," or three for Herr Rübeneck's instructive lecture; it has cost the young gentleman in the erroneous neckwear a sum that would have liquidated a week's board; and yet both you and he have enjoyed that sense of monetary frivolity which is the heart and soul of a holiday. Down with the Dismal Science! Let us assert our superiority to cash and swallow the consequence!

Nevertheless, I cannot escape the pathetic humor of this whole tumultuous situation. What more ludicrous and what more sad than the spectacle of vast hordes of people rushing to the oceanside, to escape the city's din and crowds and nervous strain, and, once within sight and sound of the waves, courting worse din, denser crowds, and an infinitely more devastating nervous strain inside an inclosure whence the ocean cannot possibly be seen? Is it thus they seek rest, by a madly exaggerated homoeopathy? Is it thus they cure Babylon, not with more Babylon, but with Babel gone daft? We Anglo-Saxons have scandalized the seaside long ere this, building our miniature London at Brighton, our miniature Bowery at Coney Island; we have spoiled our holidays from of old, hiding behind newspapers on coastwise steamboats amid entrancing scenery, talking Wall Street on the Grand Canal, transplanting high fashion to the very forest; yet not till of late have we achieved so frantic a travesty upon recreation (which ought to re-create) as in the tom-tom foolery of an amusement park.

Mr. Guy Wetmore Carryl, contemplating its marvels, exclaimed, "Never tell me again that Americans are a nervous people!" They are, though, and yonder amazing institution proves it. Manhattanitis, with its numerous congeners, is n't merely a disease, it's an obsession. It does n't ask relief, it only asks aggravation. The sole treatment that it welcomes is the counter-irritant powerful, drastic, and like in kind to itself. Of all the shrewd observations noted down in the now very considerable literature of this subject, the shrewdest, I judge, is the one that calls the amusement park "an artificial distraction for an artificial life."

IN the combination passenger and freight car, our canoe was the only freight, and Fred and I were the only passengers. Our car was the only car on the train; our train was the only train on the railroad. It was the Northern Newfoundland Trunk Line; and inevitably Fred, with his tendency to be facetious, had termed it the Junk Line.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays the traffic was from Marshall to Wingates; on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, from Wingates to Marshall. The distance was about sixty miles and the train traversed it in approximately five hours. Fred and I were going to Wingates. There we expected to set our canoe in the river indicated on our map, paddle up stream, carry across to another river, and come down fifty miles to St. John's.

The rolling stock of the Northern Newfoundland had no doubt been discarded by some American railway years ago; the locomotive had the funnelshaped smokestack, small boiler, and large wood-burning capacity - for wood it burned of an antiquated period. But the train crew were modern and original. Our acquaintance with them. was developed in the three stops made for water one of which was prolonged into a stop for luncheon; the engineer, the fireman, and the conductor sat with us under the pines and shared our feast. "Is n't travel unusually light this trip?" I asked.

"Well, no," the conductor acknowledged. "You see, there's nobody at Wingates now; place is all closed up. When the fishing season's over, the folks all navigate down to Marshall."

"Then why do you run this train ?"
"We run it only a month longer.

There's a steamer over from Labrador every Tuesday, and then there's folks from the States like yourselves every now and then, going into the interior. The road don't lose much money by it, and it's a convenience to some people."

66

""T will be the fine, money-makin' road some day," quoth the engineer, an enormous man, with a sandy beard and blue believing eyes. "Some day they'll be shippin' at Wingates this here asbestos. Oh, we'll be havin' the big place at Wingates some day."

"It will be doubling its population within a week and tripling it, maybe, in a year," said the conductor.

"Eh?" The engineer looked puzzled. "Ain't we delivering Tommy McCance his bride day after to-morrow?" said the conductor.

The fireman chuckled; but mirthful intelligence dawned more slowly upon the engineer's face.

"What's the joke?" asked Fred.

"Wingates has now a population of one," explained the conductor,-"Tommy McCance,-telegraph operator, railroad and steamship agent, and generally caretaker for the town. He never leaves. He has some notion of staying and building up the place. He's bound to make it a metropolis."

"So he's gettin' married to begin with," added the engineer.

"To a little French girl from Queebec," stated the fireman.

"She come to teach school at Marshall, and Tommy met her there last winter — the time his aunt died, and he went down and spent three days burying her. The little French girl was boardin' in the aunt's house."

"And she could n't speak much English then for she was just green from

Queebec," said the fireman. "And Tommy, he could n't speak no French. I wonder how he managed it. I ain't ever managed yet and me and my girl, we both speak the same language." "I guess it's in the French blood to be readier about yieldin' in such matters," said the conductor.

"Tommy is savin' up to surprise her with his parleyvooing when she comes. Do you mind how he warned us to say nothing to her about the talkin' machine ?"

"I'll bet," remarked the fireman, "that when we get in he'll be sittin' with that rubber hose-pipe to his ear."

"I'll bet," agreed the engineer. "It is sure the cute little trick, is that there talkin' machine."

"It's about time for us to be sa❜ntering along," remarked the conductor.

Fred and I would have questioned him further in regard to this vaguely sketched romance; but he settled himself into two seats for a nap - a desire which we respected. So we sat in chairs before the open doorway of the baggage-end of the car and looked out upon the passing scenery. It was now a small growth of forest, spruce and fir, and now barren tableland, in either case monotonous. Once we caught sight of an inquisitive staring caribou, which in its motionless moment, with its grotesquely stupid face and fantastic antlers, seemed more conceivable as a bizarre idol set up by dwellers of the wilderness than as the native living creature of the land.

Then suddenly we came into an area of desolation. Fire had ravaged it; there remained blackened skeletors of trees still standing on blackened earth, and nowhere a spray of green. Now and then a crow, startled by the train, winged its way tirelessly out over the charred branches; there was no other living thing. "Nice country we've come to," said Fred. "I suppose our wood-burning locomotive did this."

At that moment I was thrown forward with a lurch and sprawled on the floor. The train, which had seemed for an instant to stop short, proceeded by a series of bumping shocks. The conductor flew by us and leaped out through the open doorway. I caught sight of him landing on all fours; then, shouting to Fred, "Come on!" I followed.

By the time I had picked myself up, the train had stopped a few yards farther on, and the engineer was clambering down from his cab.

Fred and I ran forward, and, with the disconsolate crew, inspected the damage. The connecting rod of the locomotive had broken, and in the shock the forward truck of our car had been derailed.

Our concern was purely selfish. "Are we far from Wingates?" I asked. But in their sorrow they paid no attention to this trivial inquiry.

"That's the first what you might really call a breakdown I've had," said the engineer lugubriously.

"Can you mend her, Bill?" asked the conductor.

"Maybe I'll get an idea - maybe I will."

The fireman threw out a suggestion. "I bet Tommy McCance can fix her." The engineer's face brightened.

"Why, maybe he could; I think likely. Why don't you and Jake go and fetch him? I'll stop and tinker."

"All right." The conductor looked at us. "If you folks want to come along, it ain't much of a walk."

So we all four stumped, single file, up the narrow-gauge track. It was a fine warm afternoon, but even the bright sun had no power to cheer that forlorn country. The soil was full of peat, which, in the fire that had swept the forest, had smouldered until all the vegetation had been killed. The breeze that was stirring bore the acrid smell of old wood ashes; and sooty particles floated in the air and smudged our faces. Occasionally

nant pools, from which clouds of mos

quitoes and black flies came joyfully dancing to us. In the course of twenty minutes we emerged upon the town of Wingates the terminus of the road.

It was worse than the desolation by which it was surrounded. Fifty or a hundred cabins made of rough slabs of pine, each with its little stovepipe protruding from its slanting roof, littered an area of open level plateau. Beyond we had sight of the wholesome sea, into which it would have seemed a gracious thing to sweep the town of Wingates. How the little tinder-boxes had escaped the fire I wondered, for it had eaten to the very edge of the village. All grass about the houses seemed to have been trampled out by the feet of the departed dwellers and their animals. Rotting caribou hides lay in the dust or were tacked upon the cabin walls. But in one cabin, through an open window fluttered a white dimity curtain; and on a small flagpole projecting from the house labeled "General Store," flapped the Union Jack.

"Let's crawl up on Tommy and see what he's about," said the fireman.

The conductor had a quality of boyishness, and assented. So we all advanced with a felonious caution, making no sound - which was easy in walking through such powdery dust. We crept up to the General Store and there, I confess, we crouched and listened. Within, a singular faint whine, hardly human, was continuous. The conductor and the fireman peered through the window, then politely made room for Fred and me.

With his back to us sat a young man, collarless, in his shirtsleeves, holding to his left ear a rubber tube and listening attentively. In his right hand he had a book on which his eyes were fixed. On the table before him was a small machine to which the rubber tube was attached and which was producing the continuous half-human whine. I picked out one sentence "La prononciation est très difficile and then to my ears the thing became inarticulate. After a while it began to count, distinctly, emphatic

and all same," he added whimsically. "Women and men-both got to do it.” The conductor coughed, and I dodged. The young man came out with a jump. "Jake! Sammy! How'd you get here? Where's the train ?"

"Back up the road a bit. Busted. Bill can't fix it."

"Busted!" The shocked expression on his face seemed to me humorously out of proportion to the accident. "We'll go down and see what can be done. I'm afraid you gentlemen are put to some inconvenience."

"We have a canoe aboard, and we don't much fancy lugging it and all our stuff to the river," Fred answered.

"We can transport that for you on our handcar." He pointed to the miniature object that stood on the rusty siding.

He was a good-looking, clean-cut chap; when a man who wears no collar makes that impression, it means something. Alert, sensitive, and resolute - I wondered that one whose face showed these qualities should be a dweller of the solitudes.

During the brief walk to the siding, I noticed for the first time his scarred and discolored hands.

"You've had a pretty bad fire here, have n't you?” I said.

"Yes, three weeks ago. It was quite bad."

"I don't understand why the town did n't go."

"Well, it had a pretty close call- and if the wind had n't changed and the rain had n't come at just the right time, there'd have been no saving it."

I saw the fireman nudge the conductor. McCance unlocked one of the huts, which seemed to be a tool and repair shop. He brought out various implements and loaded them on the car, and last of all he directed the conductor and the fireman to put aboard a jackscrew and rollers. "We have so much to carry that I'll have to ask you gentlemen to help pump," said McCance. "I'm rather ashamed my hands"

but

So we four, the conductor and Fred on one handle, and the fireman and I on the other, sent the car trundling along, while McCance squatted on the jackscrew. When we arrived at the train, we found the engineer sitting beside his locomotive dejectedly. McCance made a brisk examination and ordered up the jackscrew. Under his superintendence, after an hour's labor, we restored the truck to the rails.

It was then nearly sunset; the light was striking horizontally through the trees. McCance stood for a few moments looking at the broken connecting-rod. "That's not so easy," he said at last. He crawled under the tender and removed the brake rods. Then he took off the two broken pieces of the connecting-rod. "If I can drill through and rivet these pieces together with the brake rods-" he muttered; and with his handdrill he set to work. "The steel needs tempering; it will be a long job," he said at last with a sigh. "Nothing more we can do here to-night."

He turned to Fred and me. "We'll take your canoe on the hand-car now, and in the morning we'll put it in the river for you."

With the canoe on the car, there was room for only three of us. "I like run

ning this machine,' said Fred. "I'd rather run it than walk."

I agreed with him; we took the fireman aboard to help us and started off. "What's the matter with his hands?" Fred asked.

"Burned," said the fireman. "We left these woods green enough one morning three weeks ago; come back to 'em the next afternoon to find 'em like this, or still smoulderin', and dirty gray smoke comin' up in places from the earth. Tommy McCance was hunched over on his doorstep with his two arms across his knees, and his hands looking like big greasy swabs all done up loose they were in rags, and soaked with oil. He'd bandaged 'em with his teeth. I had to laugh when he told you the town would have gone except for the shift in the wind."

"He saved it, did he?"

"Well, he never said so. He carried water and wet down the houses and beat out the fire with wet caribou hides,—and got both his hands cooked. He looked on it as his duty to save everything — and he done so."

"Pretty hard just when he's about to be married."

"Yes, but it's mighty lucky he is to be married. He needs another pair of hands to help him. Lord knows how he's managed to take care of himself."

That evening at any rate he was relieved of certain duties. The conductor cooked the supper, and afterwards the train crew insisted on the privilege of washing the dishes. McCance invited Fred and me to accompany him to his shop. There he made a fire in the charcoal stove and began heating his drill.

"Awkward time for the train to break down," he observed. "I was expecting to be married day after to-morrow."

We expressed our interest and good

wishes.

"But I don't know now if I can be. The minister comes to-morrow from Labrador; the steamer to St. John's drops him on the island out there, and