of his exploits and "beats" and does their author reverence. Jack always calls himself a newspaper man. That is the sensible title. Yet he might wear the name of journalist much more worthily.
Ashley is in Vermont for his health. Five years of continuous hustling on a big New York daily has necessitated a breathing spell. He was telling Mr. Ricker that his "wheels were all run down and needed repairing," and that he believed he would take his vacation early this year.
"I'll tell you where you want to go," volunteered the city editor, who was "raised" among the Green Mountains and served his apprenticeship gathering locals on a Burlington weekly.
"All right; let's have it."
"Take three weeks off and go up into Vermont."
"Vermont—Vermont—where's Vermont? O, yes, that green daub on the map of New England. Railroad run through there?"
"Now, see here, Jack," retorted Ricker, "you're not so confoundedly ignorant as you imply. That's the trouble with you New Yorkers who were born and bred here. You consider everything above the Harlem River a jay community. You're a sight more provincial than half the inhabitants of rural New England."
Jack laughed. "Come to think of it, you hailed from there."
"Yes, and it's a mighty good State to hail from. Now, you run up to Raymond—it's a little town about in the Y of the Green Mountain range. You'll not have Broadway, with its theaters, and restaurants, and bars, but you'll get a big room, with a clean, airy bed to sleep in—none of your narrow hall-chamber cots—and good, plain, wholesome food to eat. Those necessities of life which Vermont does not supply, good tobacco and good whisky, you can take with you. You'll come back feeling like a fighting cock." And before his chief finished painting the attractions of the Green Mountain State, with incidental references to John Stark and Ethan Allen,
