“Would you tell me then,” I asked, “since you have not forbidden the making, nor the selling, nor the buying, nor the drinking of whisky, just what it is that you have prohibited? What is the difference between Montreal and Toronto?”
Mr. Narrowpath put down his glass on the “desk” in front of him. He gazed at me with open-mouthed astonishment.
“Toronto?” he gasped. “Montreal and Toronto! The difference between Montreal and Toronto! My dear sir—Toronto—Toronto”
I stood waiting for him to explain. But as I did so I seemed to become aware that a voice, not Mr. Narrowpath’s but a voice close at my ear, was repeating “Toronto—Toronto—Toronto”
I sat up with a start—still in my berth in the Pullman car—with the voice of the porter calling through the curtains “Toronto! Toronto!”
So! It had only been a dream. I pulled up the blind and looked out of the window and there was the good old city, with the bright sun sparkling on its church spires and on the bay spread out at its feet. It looked quite unchanged: just the same pleasant old place, as cheerful, as self-conceited, as kindly, as hospitable, as quarrelsome, as wholesome,
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