Sheridan had decided to conclude his day’s work early that afternoon, and at about two o’clock he left his office with a man of affairs from foreign parts, who had traveled far for a business conference with Sheridan and his colleagues.  Herr Favre, in spite of his French name, was a gentleman of Bavaria.  It was his first visit to our country, and Sheridan took pleasure in showing him the sights of the country’s finest city.  They got into an open car at the main entrance of the Sheridan Building, and were driven first, slowly and momentously, through the wholesale district and the retail district; then more rapidly they inspected the packing-houses and the stock-yards; then skirmished over the “park system” and “boulevards”; and after that whizzed through the “residence section” on their way to the factories and foundries.

“All cray,” observed Herr Favre, smilingly.

“’Cray’?” echoed Sheridan.  “I don’t know what you mean.  ’Cray’?”

“No white,” said Herr Favre, with a wave of his hand toward the long rows of houses on both sides of the street.  “No white lace window-curtains; all cray lace window-curtains.”

“Oh.  I see!” Sheridan laughed indulgently.  “You mean ‘gray.’  No, they ain’t, they’re white.  I never saw any gray ones.”

Herr Favre shook his head, much amused.  “There are no white ones,” he said.  “There is no white anything in your city; no white window-curtains, no white house, no white peeble!” He pointed upward.  “Smoke!” Then he sniffed the air and clasped his nose between forefinger and thumb.  “Smoke!  Smoke ef’rywhere.  Smoke in your insites.”  He tapped his chest.  “Smoke in your lunks!”

“Oh!  Smoke!” Sheridan cried with gusto, drawing in a deep breath and patently finding it delicious.  “You bet we got smoke!”

“Exbensif!” said Herr Favre.  “Ruins foliage; ruins fabrics.  Maybe in summer it iss not so bad, but I wonder your wifes will bear it.”

Sheridan laughed uproariously.  “They know it means new spring hats for ’em!”

“They must need many, too!” said the visitor.  “New hats, new all things, but nothing white.  In Munchen we could not do it; we are a safing peeble.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Munchen.  You say ‘Munich.’”

“Well, I never been to Munich, but I took in the Mediterranean trip, and I tell you, outside o’ some right good scenery, all I saw was mighty dirty and mighty shiftless and mighty run-down at the heel.  Now comin’ right down to it, Mr. Farver, wouldn’t you rather live here in this town than in Munich?  I know you got more enterprise up there than the part of the old country I saw, and I know you’re a live business man and you’re associated with others like you, but when it comes to livin’ in a place, wouldn’t you heap rather be here than over there?”

“For me,” said Herr Favre, “no.  Here I should not think I was living.  It would be like the miner who goes into the mine to work; nothing else.”