Miss James. No; but we are going there, of course.
Grace. Chicago is fine, when you get there; but it's dangerous travelling. Great herds of buffalo wander on the plains, and bands of Indians lie in ambush for the trains.
Miss James. Only fancy! How do the trains ever pass?
Grace. It all depends on your engineer. If he understands his business, he shoots at lightning speed through Indians and buffaloes. But you can't feel quite safe till you get there.
Miss James. I must tell mamma of this. I am sure she will not go.
Miss Sommerfield. We should go on with our preparations, girls. Has anybody a suggestion to make?
Helen. I have an idea. We have among the hotel guests a fine pianist. Perhaps he would play for us.
Grace. You mean that gloomy-looking man with such a name?
Olive. With a long mustache, and eyes with white in them?
Helen. Speak of him respectfully. He plays like an angel.