“Now we’re started!” said Mr. Douglass, with an expression of relief. But the coach rounded a corner in a leisurely manner, and drew up at another hotel. Again the man disappeared, and the waiting was repeated.
“This is not a tally-ho,” said Harry, “it is a tarry-whoa”; and so it proved. Even after the man was again at hand, the old coach went no faster than the slowest of jog-trots. And at the same dolorous gait they loitered along on Woodlawn Avenue, a straight street beautifully paved, and fit to be a blessing to bicyclers. They were as long in passing a given point as was possible. Every vehicle went by them except children’s carriages with nurses; wagons of heavy iron-castings, dirt-carts, streetcars—until one man remarked jocosely that he was afraid a funeral might come up behind and run over them.
Then Harry remembered the policeman who spoke to the driver just as they were starting, and a light dawned upon that mystery.
“You remember that ‘cop’ who talked to our driver?” he asked Philip.
“Yes,” said Philip; “I thought he was warning him against reckless driving.”
“So did I,” said Harry, laughing. “But I’m sure now that he was saying a word for the poor horses. Why, those Fifth Avenue stage-horses they make such fun of in New York are Arabian coursers compared to these! See them creep!”
VIEW ON STATE STREET, LOOKING NORTHWARD FROM MADISON STREET.
They passed some gray stone buildings on the way to the business part of the city, and the driver said they were the Chicago University—a statement they accepted at the time, but doubted when they became better acquainted with the driver’s acquirements as a guide. Another great establishment they saw was an old field crowded with tents and labeled “Camp Jackson.” A sign upon its rainbow-tinted fence informed the public that board in that field and under those tents was two dollars a week and thirty-five cents a day.
“It’s a comfort,” said Harry, “to reflect that all these places, rough as they are, mean to offer Fair accommodations.”