The ride down to New York, after our train left Ossining, was
accomplished in a day coach in which our fellow passengers slept
in every conceivable attitude of discomfort.
Yet late, or rather early, as it was, we found plenty of life
still in the great city that never sleeps. Tired, exhausted, I was
at least glad to feel that finally we were at home.
"Craig," I yawned, as I began to throw off my clothes, "I'm ready
to sleep a week."
There was no answer.
I looked up at him almost resentfully. He had picked up the mail
that lay under our letter slot and was going through it as eagerly
as if the clock registered P.M. instead of A.M.
"Let me see," I mumbled sleepily, checking over my notes, "how
many days have we been at it?"
I turned the pages slowly, after the manner in which my mind was
working.
"It was the twenty-sixth when you got that letter from Ossining,"
I calculated, "and to-day makes the thirtieth. My heavens--is
there still another day of it? Is there no rest for the wicked?"
Kennedy looked up and laughed.
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