New York. Even the horses seemed ready to go to sleep as they stood lazily at the shafts or poles of the vehicles they drew.
"Come on!" cried Sandy, hospitably. "It's quite a little drive out to our farm, and I know your folks must be tired and hungry."
"Hungry! That's no name for it!" voiced Miss Dixon. "Have you any lobsters, Mr. Apgar?"
"Lobsters? No'm. They don't raise none of them birds out here. But we got chicken."
"Oh, listen to him, Pearl!" exclaimed Miss Dixon. "He thinks a lobster is a bird."
"Don't mind them," said Paul Ardite to Sandy, in a low voice. "It hasn't been many years that they could afford lobster. Chicken for mine, every time."
"Well, they do say ma cooks th' best chicken around here," spoke Sandy, proudly. "She done it in Southern style this time."
"Say no more!" exclaimed Mr. DeVere. "Sandy, you are a gentleman and a scholar. How long will it take us to get to your farm?"
"About half an hour."
"That's twenty-nine minutes too long, since you have mentioned chicken in Southern style. But do your best."
Seated in the comfortable carryall, the mem-
