down the rapidly moving train like a sailor on a storm-tossed ship. From the curtained compartment at the end of the car he saw tobacco smoke issuing and heard the sound of male voices within. In the five minutes that he stood outside, he saw three men issue from this place and two others enter. He concluded that it was public and walked boldly in.
He entered a region of metal wash-bowls, mirrors and leather-upholstered seats. Three men occupied the compartment. Two were young and seated together. Opposite them lounged a puffy, middle-aged man, coatless, wearing a shirt with huge alternate purple and white stripes and smoking a black, greasy cigar. Both of the young men were puffing upon pipes. Harold wondered if one had to smoke to be admitted here. He disliked the taste of tobacco intensely.
The youth who wasn't reading the leather-bound red book looked up as he entered and nodded slightly. His roving eyes had seen the copy of the Tate "Tattler," the last one Harold had received, the "Special Reunion Number," bulging in Harold's pocket. Harold, taking this nod for an invitation and desperately in need of company, nodded in return and sat down near the nodder.
"Are you a Tate man?" asked the latter promptly. He was husky, merry-faced
