“Nothing doing,” says the guy.  “Give you Bass Rocks, Seal Rocks, or six varieties of Spouting Rocks; but no Roaring ones on the list.  Any choice?”

“Gwan, you fresh Mellen seed!” says I.  “You got to have ’em.  It says so on the card,” and I shoves the postal at him.

“Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck,” says he.  “Postmarked Boothbay Harbor, isn’t it?  Bath for yours.  Change there for steamer.  Upper’s the best I can do for you—­drawing rooms all gone.”

“Seein’ how my private car’s bein’ reupholstered, I’ll chance an upper,” says I.  “Only don’t put any nose trombone artist underneath.”

Yes, I was feelin’ some gayer than a few hours before.  What did I care if the old town was warmin’ up as we pulls out until it felt like a Turkish bath?  I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suit and three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin’ kale buttoned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee’s stowed away careful.  Say, I should worry!  And don’t they do some breezin’ along on that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though?

“What cute little village is this?” says I to Rastus in the washroom next mornin’ about six-thirty A. M.

“Pohtland, Suh,” says he.  “Breakfast stop, Suh.”

“Me for it, then,” says I.  “When in Maine be a maniac.”  So I tackles a plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie.  M-m-m-m!  They sure can build pie up there!

It’s quite some State, Maine.  Bath is several jumps on, and that next joint——­ Say, it wa’n’t until I’d changed to the steamer and was lookin’ over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name.  Boothbay!  Why, wa’n’t that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from?  Maybe you remember,—­Ira, who’d come on to see Mr. Robert about buildin’ a new racin’ yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affair on his mind?  Why, sure, this was Ira’s Harbor I was headed for.  And, say, I didn’t feel half so strange about explorin’ the State after that.  For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine.  Havin’ settled that with myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin’ every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coop on the very top where a long guy wearin’ white suspenders over a blue flannel shirt is jugglin’ the steerin’ wheel.

“Hello, Cap!” says I.  “How’s she headin’?”

He ain’t one of the sociable kind, though.  You’d most thought, from the reprovin’ stare he gives me, that he didn’t appreciate good comp’ny.

“Can’t you read?” says he.

“Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign?  Sure, Pete,” says I; “but I can’t see it from in here.”

“Then git out where you can see it plainer,” says he.

“Ah, quit your kiddin’!” says I.  “That’s for the common herd, ain’t it?  Now, I——­ Say, if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll tell you who I am.”

“Say it quick then,” says he.  “Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the Secretary of the Navy?”