a week we ought to be in San Francisco and aboard the steamer. I hope Mr. Damon arrives on time."
"Oh, you can generally depend on him," said Tom. "I telephoned him, just before I started from Shopton, and he said"
"Bless my carpet slippers!" cried a voice outside the hotel apartment. "But I can find my way all right. I know the number of the room. No! you needn't take my bag. I can carry it myself!"
"There he is!" laughed Tom, opening the door to disclose the eccentric gentleman himself, struggling to keep possession of his valise against the importunities of a bellboy.
"Ah, Tom—Mr. Titus! Glad to see you!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "I—I am a little late, I fear—had an accident—wait until I get my breath," and he sank, panting, into a chair.
"Accident?" cried Tom. "Are you?"
"Yes—my taxicab ran into another. Nobody hurt though."
"But you're all out of breath," said Mr. Titus. "Did you run?"
"No, but I walked upstairs."
"What! Seven flights?" exclaimed Tom. "Weren't the hotel elevators running?"
"Yes, but I don't like them. I'd rather walk.
