Two hours later he was in the train for Salt Lake City. He probably reckoned this way: "It is only five days' journey in the cars, and what is that when one sets against it a good talk in the interest of the Review?"
Mr. Metcalf set out, arrived, saw, had his chat, took the cars again, and came home.
"But," I timidly advanced, "what became of the Review during all this time?"
"Oh, it suffered nothing from my absence," said its editor; "I installed myself at the table in the library-car, where I was able to carry on my work at my ease. When we stopped at the stations, I posted my letters, and sent and received telegrams with as little difficulty as in New York."
"But could you really work easily in the train?"
"Better, much better, than at my own desk, my dear sir; there was no one to come and disturb me."
I was one day relating this conversation to an American journalist.
"You are simply wonderful, you Americans," I said to him; "you would go to the Sandwich Islands to fetch news of the king at Honolulu."
"Just so," he replied—"I have done it."
This "I have done it" was the finishing touch.