sign-post renewed their courage.  Wharton, it declared, was but a mile distant.  But that was a long, long last mile!  They were no longer sleepy, but their legs were very tired and the chilly breeze still bored through their coats.  But their journey came to an end at last.  Straggling houses appeared, houses with little gardens and truck patches about them.  Then came a factory building with row on row of staring windows just catching the first faint glow of the sun.  Then they crossed a railroad and plunged into the town.

But it was a silent, empty town, for this was Sunday morning, and their steps on the brick sidewalk echoed lonesomely.  The awful thought that perhaps there would be no eating-place open assailed them and drew a groan of dismay from Amy.  “Still,” he declared, “if the worst comes to the worst, we can break a window and get taken to jail.  They feed you in jail, don’t they?” he added wistfully.

But near the centre of town a cheering sight met their anxious eyes.  A little man in a white apron was sweeping the doorway of a tiny restaurant, yawning and pausing at intervals to gaze curiously toward the approaching travellers.  Before they reached him, however, his curiosity either gave out or was sated, for, with a final tap of the broom against the doorway, he disappeared.  “Suppose,” exclaimed Amy, “he changes his mind and locks up again!” They urged tired feet to a faster pace and reached the door.  On one wide window was the legend:  “Cannister’s Cafe.”  The door was closed but unlocked.  They opened it and entered.

There was no one in sight, but from beyond a partition which ran across the room at the back came the cheering sounds of rattling dishes and the heartening fragrance of coffee.  There were eight small tables and a little counter adorned with a cash register and a cigar case, and these, excepting an appropriate number of chairs, comprised the furnishings; unless the various signs along each wall could be included.  These announcements were printed in blue on grey card-board, and the boys, sinking into chairs at the nearest table, read them avidly:  “Beef Stew, 15 Cents”; “Pork and Beans, 10 Cents”; “Boiled Rice and Milk, 10 Cents”; “Coffee and Crullers, 10 Cents”; “Oysters in Season”; “Small Steak, 30 Cents”; “Buy a Ticket—­$5.00 for $4.50”; “Corn Beef Hash, 15 Cents; With 1 Poached Egg, 20 Cents.”

Their eyes met and they smiled.  It was pleasantly warm in the little restaurant, the sun was peeping in at the window, the odour of coffee was more delightful than anything they had ever inhaled and it was extremely good to stretch tired legs and ease aching muscles, and for several minutes they were content to sit there and feast their hungry eyes on the placards and enjoy in anticipation the cheer that was to follow.

“What are you going to have?” asked Amy presently.

“Beans and a lot of bread-and-butter and seventy-five cups of coffee,” replied Clint rapturously.