Monday morning. It was too late for the north and too late for the opposite Michigan shore; but there was "down state" itself, where the days grew warmer and the autumn younger the farther south one went. There was a trip down a certain historic river,—historic, as our rivers went, and admirably scenic always. He recalled an exceptional hotel on one of its best reaches; one overrun in midsummer, but doubtless quiet at this season. It stood in the midst of some striking cliffs and gorges; and possibly one of the little river-steamers was in commission, or could be induced to run . . .
Foster dropped his muffler pettishly. "Read,—if you won't talk!"
"I can talk all right," returned Randolph. "In fact, I have a bit of news for you."
"What is it?"
"I'm going to move."
Foster peered out from under his shade.
"Move? What for? I thought you were all right where you are."
"All right enough; except that I want more room—and a house of my own."
"Have you found one?"
"I've about decided on an apartment. And I expect to move into it early next month."
"Top floor, of course?"
"No; first floor, not six feet above the street level."
"Good. If they'll lend me a hand here, to get down and out, I'll come and see you, now and then."
"Do so."
