"Oh, Becky, Becky," Mr. Adams wailed in despair. "I told you, I told you..."

"What did you tell me?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"Oh, but! Becky! What did you do? Everything is lost! I told you, you must be careful!"

We recalled that in the machine were the suitcases we had packed away for the road, since we had decided to leave Chicago immediately after the concert and to spend the night in some little town. We walked along Michigan Avenue, literally tottering from grief. We no longer felt the icy wind that blew our overcoats apart.

Then suddenly we saw our car. There it was—on the opposite side of the street. The left front wheel was on the sidewalk, the doors were open. Inside, the light was on, and even the headlights of our sedate mouse-coloured treasure shone in confusion.

We ran to it, yelping with joy. What luck! Everything was in its place, including the key, the licence, and the baggage. Preoccupied with the examination of the automobile, we did not notice the approach of a huge policeman.

"Is that your automobile?" he asked in a thunderous voice. "Yes, sir!" Mr. Adams piped in fright.

"A-a-a!" roared the giant, looking down upon fat little Adams. "Do you know—the devil take you!—where to park a machine in the city of Chicago?"

"No, Mr. Officer," Adams replied meekly.

"I am not an officer!" cried the policeman. 'I am only a policeman! Don't you know that you must not leave your automobile in front of a hotel on a thoroughfare like Michigan Avenue? This is not New York. I'll teach you to drive in Chicago!"

Mr. Adams evidently thought that Mr. Officer would beat him up, so he shielded his head with his arms.

"This is not New York," shouted the policeman, "where you can throw your trough in the middle of the main street!" He was evidently settling some ancient account with New York. "Do you know that I had to squeeze myself into your lousy little car, move it to this place, and then watch it for two hours, so that no one should steal it?"

"Yes, Mr. Officer!" chimed in Adams.

"I am not an officer!"

"Oh, no! Mr. Policeman! I am very, very sorry! I apologize most humbly!"

"Well," said the policeman, softening, "this is Chicago and not New York!"

We thought that he would give us a ticket (whoever gets a ticket must appear in court), that we would be fined mercilessly, and maybe even placed in the electric chair (who can tell about the customs of Chicago ?). But the giant suddenly laughed aloud in a terrifying basso and said:

"Well, run along. But next time remember, this is Chicago, not New York!"

We hastily got into the machine.

"Good-bye!" cried Mr. Adams, who became lively again after the machine started. "Good-bye, Mr. Officer!".

In reply we heard only an indistinct roar.

PART III

TOWARD THE PACIFIC OCEAN

19 In Mark Twain's Country

AT THE beginning of our journey we passed through the states of New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois. The names of countless little cities where we had lunch or dinner, where we went to the motion-picture theatre, or where we spent the night, remained in our memories. Poughkeepsie, Hudson, Albany, Troy, Auburn, Waterloo, Avon, Fredonia, Erie, Sandusky, Toledo, Peoria, Springfield.

In all these towns, and in hundreds of others unmentioned here, on the main square stand monuments to the soldier of the Civil War, the war between the North and the South. These are very nice monuments, small in stature, and not at all militant. Somewhere in old Europe a bronze or stone warrior inevitably waves his sword or gallops on a rearing horse, or, at any rate, he shouts something in the nature of, "Forward, wonderful heroes!" But the monuments of American cities are entirely devoid of exuberance. The little soldier stands, idly leaning on a rifle, the haversack on his back is buttoned in accordance with the rules and regulations, his head droops on his arm, and at almost any moment this fighter for the liberation of the Negroes may doze off, lulled to slumber by the peaceful autumn atmosphere.

These monuments were imported from Germany. They are quite alike. They do not differ from one another any more than a standard model of one Ford differs from the next, which may differ by an ash-tray and therefore may cost half a dollar more. Some of the cheap little soldiers are so small that you could keep them in your room. Others, more expensive, were somewhat like the one we have just described. There is, if one may put it that way, a de luxe model of a soldier at whose feet lies a cannon-ball. To make a long story short, this German merchandise was available in all prices, so that each little town chose its monument according to its means. It is only comparatively recently that Americans freed themselves from such dependence on foreign countries and at last began to make cast-iron and stone soldiers with their own hands and out of their own materials.

Besides that, each American town, the denizens of which are not devoid of a legitimate feeling of patriotism, has likewise at its disposal a cannon of the times of the same war between the North and the South, and a small pile of cannon-balls. The cannon and the cannon-balls are usually placed not too far from the soldier, and together make up the military and historical division of the town. Its contemporary part is already known to us. It is composed of automobile establishments, drug-stores, restaurants, five-and-ten-cent stores, and grocery stores belonging to the firm "Atlantic and Pacific." The stores of that company are built according to one model, and no matter in what corner of the land a customer may find himself, he always knows that in an Atlantic and Pacific store pepper stands on a certain shelf, vanilla on such and such a shelf, and coconut on such and such a shelf. This magnificent sameness even invests the Atlantic and Pacific company with certain attributes of immortality. One imagines that in case of the destruction of our planet, the last lights to go out would be in the stores of this Atlantic and Pacific company which so zealously and devotedly serves the consumer, offering him always a wide and fresh assortment of grocery goods, from bananas to cigarettes and cigars of domestic as well as imported tobacco.

The same inclement weather pursued us throughout the journey. Only on the first day of our trip did the frozen sun light the way. In Buffalo it was already raining, while in Cleveland the rain increased. In Detroit it became real punishment, while in Chicago it was succeeded by a ferociously cold wind that tore off hats and almost put out electric signs.

Shortly before we reached Chicago in rain and fog we saw the murky phantom of the metallurgical plant at Gary. Metallurgy and inclemency conspired to create a depressing ensemble that gave us goose-pimples. Only the day after our mad dash out of Chicago did we first see the blue sky across which the wind quickly and unceremoniously chased the clouds. The roads changed—not the road itself but rather everything that surrounded it. We had passed at last through the industrial East and found ourselves in the Middle West.

There are three true indications whereby Americans infallibly determine whether the real West has actually begun. From the show windows of small restaurants and drug-stores announcements advertising "hot dogs" disappear. A "hot dog" is not really far removed from an ordinary dog —it is a hot sausage. Throughout the world there are witticisms concerning sausages and dogdom, but only in Eastern America has this witticism become current to the extent of making dog the official name for sausage.