PAINTED ROCK
Orl'ans," and was really in London. I sighed to think of Piccadilly and Fleet Street and Charing Cross. I saw the crowds and heard the perpetual thunder of the traffic, and remembered many old friends by whom I was half forgotten. I cursed poor Brazos Dick for making me feel that I was in exile on the high plateaus of north-west Texas.
Then I went one day to Sweetwater on business, and caught by the skin of my teeth the late express back to Painted Rock. As I went into the dimly-lighted smoker I looked around me for any acquaintance, and the very first person I set eyes on was Brazos Dick. But the boy was fast asleep, with his long legs outstretched on the opposite seat as far as the uncomfortable carriage would let them go. I sat down by Brazos, wondering if he had really been to London. I looked up into the rack overhead and saw, instead of his cow-hat, a bowler! In its ribbon was the conductor's slip for the ticket. I took it down, and inside it I read "London. Extra Quality!" The boy had done it then. He had been to my little town and had seen the
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