pitch pines and the bare, brown fields and knolls dimly seen
through the fog looked moist and forsaken and dismal. There were
no houses in sight; along the East Wellmouth road there are few
dwellings, for no one but a misanthrope or a hermit would select
that particular section as a place in which to live. Night was
coming on and, to accent the loneliness, from somewhere in the
dusky dimness a great foghorn groaned at intervals. It was a sad and deserted outlook, that from the seat of Mr.
Pulcifer's "flivver" as it bounced and squeaked and rattled and
splashed its way along. But Mr. Pulcifer himself was not sad, at
least his appearance certainly was not. Swinging jauntily, if a
trifle ponderously, with the roll of the little car, his clutch
upon the steering wheel expressed serene confidence and his manner
self-satisfaction quite as serene. His plaid cap was tilted
carelessly down toward his right ear, the tilt being balanced by
the upward cock of his cigar toward his left ear. The light-
colored topcoat with the soiled collar was open sufficiently at the
throat to show its wearer's chins and a tasty section of tie and
cameo scarf-pin below them. And from the corner of Mr. Pulcifer's
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