"It did. In the short time I was there the newspapers noted several cases of fires caused by people leaving their stoves turned up high at night and the flames bursting into the room and setting fire to some inflammable thing near at hand when the pressure grew strong after the good Pittsburgers went to bed."
"It certainly is useful," commended Mrs. Morton. "A turn of the key and that's all."
"No coal to be shovelled—think of it!" exclaimed Roger, who took care of several furnaces in winter. "No ashes to be sifted and carried away! The thought causes me to burst into song," and he chanted ridicuously:—
"Given a tight tin stove, asbestos fluff,
A match of wood, an iron key, and, puff,
Thou, Natural Gas, wilt warm the Arctic wastes,
And Arctic wastes are Paradise enough."
As the train drew out of the city the young people's expectations of fairyland were not fulfilled.
"I don't see anything but dirt and horridness, Grandfather," complained Ethel Brown.
Mr. Emerson looked out of the window thoughtfully for a moment.