“It’s often struck me,” said Mr. Clyde, “that I feel better traveling in Europe than in America. Yet our Pullmans are supposed to be the best in the world.”
“The worst!” declared Dr. Strong forcefully. “The best in luxuries, the worst in necessities. The only real good and fairly sanitary cars operated by the Pullman Company, outside of the high-priced stateroom variety, are the second class transcontinentals, the tourist cars. They have straw seats instead of plush; light hangings, and, as a rule, good ventilation. If I go to the Pacific Coast again, it will be that way.”
There was a pause, in which rose the clear whisper of Bobs, appealing to his mentor, Julia, for information.
“Say, Junkum, how did we get so far away from home?”
“High time we came back, isn’t it, Bobs?” approved the doctor. “Well, suppose we return by way of the school-house. All of you go to Number Three but Betsey, don’t you?”
“And I’m go-un next year,” announced that young lady.
“Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Clyde. “Don’t you think, Doctor, that children are liable to catch all sorts of things in the public schools?”
“Unquestionably.”
“More so than in private schools, aren’t they?”
“Hum! Well, yes; since they’re brought into contact with a more miscellaneous lot of comrades.”