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 there was a supply of ginger-snaps in that bag. They walked out of the hot sunshine and sat down in the shade of the wide veranda of the railroad restaurant, which displayed a very gay sign, "Lafayette Fox, Proprietor." Mr. Hilliard gave them a spirited account of an adventure he had met with while on a sketching tour in Cuba; and when Gerald suggested that he might entertain himself and them by making a pencil drawing then and there of the motionless train and the groups of people gathered near it he assented. "I'll run over and get my pencils and a block of paper in my bag. It'll only take a minute." They watched him hurry away—certainly the most obliging man in the world.

Now, the restaurant was being transformed into the glory of a hotel. Back of the rear rooms rose the yellow-pine frame of a large wing, intended to contain, when finished, at least seven or eight good-sized rooms.

"Let's go along this piazza," proposed Philip, as several minutes elapsed and Mr. Hilliard did not put in his re-appearance. (Mr. Hilliard, it may be explained, was struggling with