"I admit I have heard something about Chicago being the centre of the universe," retorted Waterman, "but I thought that opinion was confined to the breezy inhabitants of the windy city."
"Well, in my opinion," said Duncan, "Chicago isn't a half bad place. 'Tisn't New York, of course, but you can't expect that. They've got most of the things there that we have, and some that we haven't. There's one thing about the people, too, that I like; they keep awake when the rest of the world is dozing, and that is bound to tell in the end."
"That's right, Duncan," echoed Van Vort.
"Sit down on sectional ignorance and prejudice. New Yorkers are getting to be as provincial as Parisians, and it is time they learned that the sun doesn't rise and set on Manhattan Island."
"You are all wrong, Rennsler," answered Howard-Jones. "Duncan is drawing a big salary for booming Chicago real estate; you'd do the same thing if you got paid for it."
"No back talk, Hyphenated-Jones," said Duncan facetiously. "Just crawl behind that French novel and don't let me hear from you again."
"I will if you will shut up about Chicago; you make me weary."
"Anything to keep you quiet," answered Duncan.
The four friends gradually settled themselves behind afternoon papers or novels, and remained silent. The train rattled on through small suburban towns and now and then drew up before a dainty, vine-covered station, with low walls and high gabled roofs, where the brakeman put his head inside the door and called off some name in unintelligible accents. People got out hurriedly, their arms filled with packages of all descriptions, the door slammed, the train started, the newsboy passed through with the papers, pop-corn, puzzles, and everything else that nobody wanted, the conductor poked dozing passengers for their tickets, the atmosphere grew blue with smoke, and the minutes passed with the exasperating slowness of time spent on a suburban train.
"I say, Duncan," said Waterman, yawning behind his paper, "how would you like to take this trip twice a day?"