“Can you go to Maryland to-day on a bird-trip?” telephoned the Banker.
“No,” said I, “lawyers have to work for a living.”
“There’ll be blue-gray gnatcatchers and mocking-birds and Acadian flycatchers,” he tried again.
“No,” said I.
“I’ve found out where the prothonotary warbler lives,” he said once more.
“No,” said I.
“We may find its nest,” he continued. “No one up here has seen one for years.”
“No,” said I firmly. “What time does the train start?”
Sunset found me Somewhere in Maryland. I was squeezed into a buggy built for one, along with the Miller, at whose house we were intending to stop, and the Banker, who is constructed on flowing, generous lines. We drove creakingly through miles and miles of blossoming peach orchards. At the Miller’s house we ate the worst supper that money could buy. The Miller’s wife had evidently been born a bad cook, and by careful practice had become worse. It was over at last, and the Banker and I retired to a room under the rafters which contained one window and a mountainous bed. The rest of the space was taken up by mosquitoes. I undressed, jumped into the bed, and sank out of sight. The Banker located me by my muffled cries for help, and pulled me to the surface just in time to save my life. Thereafter we molded a conical crater in that feather-bed and carefully fitted ourselves in, leaving a large air-hole at the top.