The Rubberneck Auto was about ready to start. Themerry top-riders had been assigned to their seats by thegentlemanly conductor. The sidewalk was blockadedwith sightseers who had gathered to stare at sightseers，justifying the natural law that every creature on earth ispreyed upon by some other creature.
The megaphone man raised his instrument of torture；the inside of the great automobile began to thump andthrob like the heart of a coffee drinker. The top-ridersnervously clung to the seats； the old lady from Valparaiso，Indiana， shrieked to be put ashore. But， before a wheelturns， listen to a brief preamble through the cardiaphone，which shall point out to you an object of interest on life’ssightseeing tour.
Swift and comprehensive is the recognition of whiteman for white man in African wilds； instant and sureis the spiritual greeting between mother and babe；unhesitatingly do master and dog commune across theslight gulf between animal and man； immeasurably quickand sapient are the brief messages between one and one’sbeloved. But all these instances set forth only slow andgroping interchange of sympathy and thought beside oneother instance which the Rubberneck coach shall disclose.
You shall learn （if you have not learned already） what twobeings of all earth’s living inhabitants most quickly lookinto each other’s hearts and souls when they meet face toface.
The gong whirred， and the Glaring-at-Gotham carmoved majestically upon its instructive tour.
On the highest， rear seat was James Williams， ofCloverdale， Missouri， and his Bride.
Capitalise it， friend typo—that last word—word ofwords in the epiphany of life and love. The scent of theflowers， the booty of the bee， the primal drip of springwaters， the overture of the lark， the twist of lemon peelon the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy is thewife； revered the mother； galliptious is the summer girl—but the bride is the certified check among the weddingpresents that the gods send in when man is married tomortality.
The car glided up the Golden Way. On the bridgeof the great cruiser the captain stood， trumpeting thesights of the big city to his passengers. Wide-mouthedand open-eared， they heard the sights of the metropolisthundered forth to their eyes. Confused， delirious withexcitement and provincial longings， they tried to makeocular responses to the megaphonic ritual. In the solemnspires of spreading cathedrals they saw the home of theVanderbilts； in the busy bulk of the Grand Central depotthey viewed， wonderingly， the frugal cot of Russell Sage.
Bidden to observe the highlands of the Hudson， theygaped， unsuspecting， at the upturned mountains of a newlaidsewer. To many the elevated railroad was the Rialto，on the stations of which uniformed men sat and madechop suey of your tickets. And to this day in the outlyingdistricts many have it that Chuck Connors， with his handon his heart， leads reform； and that but for the noblemunicipal efforts of one Parkhurst， a district attorney， thenotorious “Bishop” Potter gang would have destroyed lawand order from the Bowery to the Harlem River.
But I beg you to observe Mrs. James Williams—HattieChalmers that was—once the belle of Cloverdale. Paleblueis the bride’s， if she will； and this colour she hadhonoured. Willingly had the moss rosebud loaned to hercheeks of its pink—and as for the violet！—her eyes willdo very well as they are， thank you. A useless strip ofwhite chaf—oh， no， he was guiding the auto car—of whitechiffon—or perhaps it was grenadine or tulle—was tiedbeneath her chin， pretending to hold her bonnet in place.
But you know as well as I do that the hatpins did thework.
And on Mrs. James Williams’s face was recorded a littlelibrary of the world’s best thoughts in three volumes.
Volume No. 1 contained the belief that James Williamswas about the right sort of thing. Volume No. 2 was anessay on the world， declaring it to be a very excellentplace. Volume No. 3 disclosed the belief that in occupyingthe highest seat in a Rubberneck auto they were travellingthe pace that passes all understanding.
James Williams， you would have guessed， was abouttwenty-four. It will gratify you to know that your estimatewas so accurate. He was exactly twenty-three years， elevenmonths and twenty-nine days old. He was well built，active， strong-jawed， good-natured and rising. He was onhis wedding trip.
Dear kind fairy， please cut out those orders for moneyand 40 H.P. touring cars and fame and a new growth ofhair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any ofthem turn backward—oh， turn backward and give us justa teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just anhour， dear fairy， so we can remember how the grass andpoplar trees looked， and the bow of those bonnet stringstied beneath her chin—even if it was the hatpins that didthe work. Can’t do it？ Very well； hurry up with that touringcar and the oil stock， then.
Just in front of Mrs. James Williams sat a girl in a loosetan jacket and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses.
Only in dreams and milliners’ shops do we， alas！ gathergrapes and roses at one swipe. This girl gazed with largeblue eyes， credulous， when the megaphone man roaredhis doctrine that millionaires were things about whichwe should be concerned. Between blasts she resorted toEpictetian philosophy in the form of pepsin chewing gum.
At this girl’s right hand sat a young man about twentyfour.
He was well-built， active， strong-jawed and good-natured. But if his description seems to follow that ofJames Williams， divest it of anything Cloverdalian. Thisman belonged to hard streets and sharp corners. Helooked keenly about him， seeming to begrudge the asphaltunder the feet of those upon whom he looked down fromhis perch.