round, and looked at David, then he jerked his head in a friendly sort of
way and motioned towards the sunset.

"Good enough, eh?"

"Surely, for me," answered David. On the instant he liked the red,
wholesome face, and the keen, round, blue eyes, the rather opulent
figure, the shrewd, whimsical smile, all aglow now with beaming
sentimentality, which had from its softest corner called out:
"Well, give my love to the girls."

"Quaker, or I never saw Germantown and Philadelphy," he continued, with a
friendly manner quite without offence. "I put my money on Quakers every
time."

"But not from Germantown or Philadelphia," answered David, declining a
cigar which his new acquaintance offered.

"Bet you, I know that all right. But I never saw Quakers anywhere else,
and I meant the tribe and not the tent. English, I bet? Of course, or
you wouldn't be talking the English language--though I've heard they talk
it better in Boston than they do in England, and in Chicago they're
making new English every day and improving on the patent. If Chicago
can't have the newest thing, she won't have anything. 'High hopes that
burn like stars sublime,' has Chicago. She won't let Shakespeare or
Milton be standards much longer. She won't have it--simply won't have
England swaggering over the English language. Oh, she's dizzy, is
Chicago--simply dizzy. I was born there. Parents, one Philadelphy, one
New York, one Pawtucket--the Pawtucket one was the step-mother. Father
liked his wives from the original States; but I was born in Chicago. My