The conductor clanged a bell. The motorman turned his wheel and the cloud moved rapidly on.
And what a queer crowd of folks there were on board that strange trolley cloud. Tom had never seen such an interesting group before.
CHAPTER VIII.
On the Trolley Cloud.
As I stated at the end of the last chapter, the travelers Tom and his companions encountered upon the Trolley cloud were a wonderful lot. In the first place, the whole situation was strange. Here was, in fact, a perfect car, made of what at a distance looked to be nothing but a fleecy bit of vapor. It had seats and signs—indeed, the advertising signs alone were enough to occupy the mind of any person seeing them for the first time to the exclusion of all else, what with the big painted placard at the end, saying:
FOR POLAR BEARS GO TO ARCTICS
Fifty-seven Varieties.
No Home Complete Without Them.
Another showing a picture of Potted Town, in which all the inhabitants lived on canned food and things that came in jars, reading:
This is the famous Potted Town,
Where everything is done up brown,
We live on lobsters tinned, and beans,
And freshly caught and oiled sardines;
On ham and eggs done up in jars,
And caramels that come in bars,
Come buy a lot in Potted Town,
And join the throngs we do up brown.
A corner lot for fifty cents—
A bargain that is just immense.
An inner lot for forty-nine
For residence is just divine.
If in a year you do not find
That we are suited to your mind
We'll give you fifteen cents in gold,
And take back all the lots we've sold,
If, when in other lands you go
You'll recommend Soapolio.