of the rucksacks he would have discovered, not as you might think a kit of burglar's tools, but in each a change of linen, the morning tackle of ablution, a quantity of ordnance maps, a book for easy reading on the elbow, a bottle of powder for the boots. And in one bag he would have found an itinerant drug store, of which more presently when these three have need of ointment.

Evidently they went their way unnoticed, for vainly I have searched the contemporary press in its columns of scandal, accident and murder. And I fancy that even on that memorable day when Drake sailed from hereabouts to explore the circuit of the world there were folk as sullen on the streets, so absorbed in the penny profit of their shops that they did not know what mighty business was afoot. Were the wharves of Palos crowded? Did a shout fetch the sluggards to a window when Cabot sailed?

So in equal neglect our travelers tread the Strand, which is again adventure's port. Are they off to the icy regions of the pole? Let's ease the strain upon the curious readers who have spent their money to our advantage, although it is but a paltry ten per cent because of the greed of publishers. Even to those mercenary folk who borrow books and keep us hungry in an attic we shall show our mercy. How do they think that authors live when books are so cheaply passed about? They tell us that they have plucked us from a public library; they lend us round among their friends, and expect our thanks. The royalty from a purchased copy leaves nothing from a sandwich, and

shall we dine on less? These three travelers, then, seek a bus at Waterloo to bear them southward out of London, and where the bus shall climb a hill beyond the last uproar of the city they will descend, bind the rucksacks on their backs and tread roundabout the roads of Surrey, Kent and Sussex until at last they come to Canterbury. To Drake the cannibals and the anthropopagi! These three are determined on adventure among the bacon-eaters of southern England.

The first is known as Bill. On this morning of July sixteenth he wears gray flannel trousers with such other suitable garments inside and above as keep him modest. His boots, although they make a fine appearance in sedentary hours, are villains that scheme to overthrow him. Bill is a musician, with a studio, a grand piano and fair pupils who reach high C without a strain upon the buttons. In his lazy days he has a thirst for Guinness stout and at Haslemere he will recount the flowing gallons of his student days, with results. Nothing more inspiringly pathetic exists than his pilgrimage once to the brewery at Dublin to behold what he considers to be a second and more potent Font of Youth. You can see him standing hat in hand on a jaunting car, as one of different devotion might pass the shrine of Francis. He is the soul of generosity. Fifty idlers on the way will drink at his expense, a hundred children reach within his pocket for a lollipop. Weary, he will cry out "Oh, my soul!" and sit down abruptly by the road, once upon a thistle. Always he is of pleasant temper and ready to see the humor of a mishap. He is quick of eye toward the detail of English life-not the

obvious alone, but the trifles that mark a foreign people, the commonplace that escapes so many travelers. If any shrewdness shows upon these pages, it is likely that the hint was his. Each night and morning he putters with lotions from his wandering drug store.

The second of these men is a youth who is slipping rapidly through his forties and his last remaining hair. His is a head that needs a brush but not a comb, for the central tangle is cleared away. He wears a golf suit but it is merely pretense, for he hooks and slices. He carries two nonleakable fountain pens that leak within his pocket. Or is this their protest that he holds

them idle, for they are the symbol of his profession? He is polite to dogs and to all strange cattle that seem of a dirty disposition and have hooks in front.

The third of our travelers is a young man of seventeen years who at home squeaks on a violin but has a soul to be a Kreisler. His zeal is large for music, and from morn to eve he will discourse of Galli-Curci. His prized possessions are signed photographs of the opera singers, for he writes them pleading notes with a stamp inclosed. But his baser self is always hungry and he has room aboard-a hollow leg, perhaps for six square meals a day. In any lapse of the Götterdämmerung he will inquire whether it is time to eat. There is to be a shock for the waitresses of southern England and many a pretty face will turn pale as it trots for extra beef and mutton. Bill orders a dessert but shoves it on to him. This young man's name is Jimmie, but he is known at school as Beezer or sometimes vulgarly as Simpleberry. Bill and Beezer will talk for hours of music-high stuff like the Ring and Parsifal—until the young man with the nonleakable fountain pens is forced to stuff his ears.

And now these three are seated on a bus top that owes its strength to Bovril. Need I explain? Every signboard sings its praise-a spoonful night and morning for the shaking legs of convalescence. In which hymn of praise the London busses join, at usual rates.

Behind our travelers stands the Adelphi Terrace where Garrick died and Bernard Shaw lives. Upstream rise the towers of Parliament with Big Ben booming out the noon. Beneath them is the temporary

structure that serves during the repairs of Waterloo, and lower still the Thames runs to the ocean with the tide in quest of its own adventure. Bovril wheezes into motion stiff of joint, as if today, alas, it had neglected its steaming spoon. There is a burst of song from the forward seats and the trip has started.

"Hojotoho! Heiaha!" This from Bill with waving arms, in the manner of a Valkyr mounting to Valhalla. "Hojotoho! Heiaha!" An echo from Beezer. "Don't be an ass!" My own contribution.

If now you own a map of the general bus lines of London and will trace with your finger the route that Bovril took you will see that Bill, Beezer and myself sped out past the Elephant and Castle (a tavern, dear innocent) and along the New Kent Road and other