“They’ll look back on a mile a minute,” said Bruce, “as we look back on stage coach days!  And in the rush hour there’ll be a rush that’ll make you think of pneumatic tubes!  Not a sound nor a quiver—­just pure speed! Shooting people home at night at a couple of hundred miles an hour!  The city will be as big as that!  And there won’t be any accidents and there won’t be any smoke.  Instead of coal they’ll use the sun!  And, my God, man, the boulevards—­and parks and places for the kids!  The way they’ll use the River—­and the ocean and the Sound!  The Catskills will be Central Park!  Sounds funny, don’t it—­but it’s true.  I’ve studied it out from A to Z. This town is choking itself to death simply because we’re so damn slow!  We don’t know how to spread ourselves!  All this city needs is speed!”

“Bruce,” said Roger anxiously, “just go a bit easy on that gas.  The fact is, it was a great mistake for me to eat those crabs to-night.”

Bruce slowed down compassionately, and soon they turned and started home.  And as they drew near the glow of the town, other streets and boulevards poured more motors into the line, until at last they were rushing along amid a perfect bedlam made up of honks and shrieks of horns.  The air grew hot and acrid, and looking back through the bluish haze of smoke and dust behind him Roger could see hundreds of huge angry motor eyes.  Crowding and jamming closer, pell mell, at a pace which barely slackened, they sped on, a wild uproarious crew, and swept into the city.

Roger barely slept that night.  He felt the city clamoring down into his very soul.  “Speed!” he muttered viciously.  “Speed—­speed!  We need more speed!” The words beat in like a savage refrain.  At last with a sigh of impatience he got up in his nightshirt and walked about.  It was good to feel his way in the dark in this cool silent house which he knew so well.  Soon his nerves felt quieter.  He went back to his bed and lay there inert.  How good it would be to get up to the farm.

* * * * *

The next Saturday evening, with Deborah, he started for the mountains.  And Bruce came down to see them off.

“Remember, son,” said Roger, as the two walked on the platform.  “Come up this year for a month, my boy.  You need it.”  The train was about to start.

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” was the answer.  “My friend the Judge, who has hay fever, tells me he has found a cure.”

“Damn his cure!  You come to us!”

“Hold on a minute, live and learn.  The Judge is quite excited about it.  You drink little bugs, he says, a billion after every meal.  They come in tall blue bottles.  We’re going to dine together next week and drink ’em till we’re all lit up.  Oh, we’re going to have a hell of a time. His wife left town on Tuesday.”

“Bruce,” said Roger sternly, as the train began to move, “leave bugs alone and come up and breathe!  And quit smoking so many cigarettes!” He stepped on the car.