At times, in the desire to give everything and to receive something in return, service becomes comical and occasionally even vulgar.

There is a whole book of ready-made telegrams, of long and pretentiously composed telegrams, for all the occasions of life. It costs only twenty-five cents to send such a telegram. The point is that not the text of the telegram, but only the number by which it is indicated in the book and the signature of the sender are transmitted by wire. This is rather amusing and reminiscent of drug-store lunch No. 4. Everything is served here ready-made, and man is liberated from the unpleasant necessity of thinking and, besides that, he spends extra money.

There are congratulations for a birthday, for a house-warming, for New Year, for Christmas. The content and style of the telegram are adapted to every need and taste—congratulations for young husbands, for respectful nephews, for old clients, for sweethearts, children, writers, and old women. There are even telegrams in verse.

SMITH SYRACUSE TEXAS STOP

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU OLD TOP

GREETINGS ALSO TO YOUR WIFE

HOPE YOU PROSPER ALL YOUR LIFE.

For dissipated students, there are particularly extensive, quite artistically composed and touching telegrams addressed to parents, requesting money ahead of time and threatening in case of refusal to commit suicide.

And all this pleasure for only twenty-five cents!

The country respects and values service, and that service is not only ability to trade and to derive some benefit. It is necessary to say once again: service has entered into the very blood of the people. It is an integral part of the national character. Essentially, it is a way of doing things.

This feeling of respect for service, like all other popular feelings, is played upon expertly by priests and bankers. It is considered here that priests render service to the people. True, the church performance is actually called "service," yet the church also likes to use it in the figurative, or main, sense of that word. The thought is pounded into the brains of people that the church serves the people.

Service is the favourite expression of the Wall Street robber. Openly robbing people, and not only single individuals but entire cities and countries, he will unfailingly say that he is a small man, a simple fellow, and a democrat, as much as are all good people, and that it is not money he serves, but society. He gives people service.

"And so, gentlemen," said Mr. Adams when we left the Western Union, "now we shall celebrate. I ask you to follow me. It is, I think, not far from here. Forward! Go ahead!"

"Go ! Go ! Go!" cried Mrs. Adams.

Since it was already nearly ten o'clock, and all of us were quite hungry, we hastily moved forward.

"This is a marvellous restaurant," Mr. Adams was saying. " I suggest, gentlemen, that we order a large beefsteak and a couple of bottles of good California wine apiece. Although, since we are celebrating, we might as well celebrate right and take some French or Rhine wine. By the way, have you noticed that Americans drink very little wine and prefer whisky ? Oh, oh! Didn't you really know that? This is very, very interesting and will be useful for you to know. This is a profound problem. I advise you to write it down in your little notebooks. You see, a bottle of good wine presupposes good conversation. People sit at a table and talk, and so one thing supplements the other: without good conversation wine brings no pleasure. But Americans do not like and do not know how to converse. Have you noticed it? They never sit around a table longer than necessary. They have nothing to talk about. They dance or play bridge. And they prefer whisky. You drink three glasses and you're drunk at once. So that there's no use talking. Yes, yes, gentlemen, Americans do not drink wine!"

We walked for quite a while down some broad street, with cottages on either side. The business centre was far behind us. We were in the residential part. Here there were no restaurants, no stores, not even any drug-stores. It began to rain. Over the hidden lights hung a placard: " Forty deaths as a result of automobile accidents in San Antonio during the past year. Drive carefully!"

"Hadn't we better turn back?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"Oh, Becky!" exclaimed the old man. "How can you talk like that: 'Let's go back!' It's quite near to the restaurant. I well remember the place."

We walked another half-hour in the rain, becoming gloomier every minute. We passed an automobile cemetery, then a vacant lot where second-hand machines were being sold. Going in the other direction, toward the centre of the city, several automobiles passed, filled with young people who shouted something and lighted firecrackers. At a crossing was a swing illuminated with electric lights. A couple having a good time were sadly swinging in a metal boat. Only here we noticed that the rain was beginning to come down in earnest. By electric light could be seen the thin streams of rain.

"Well, all right," said Mrs. Adams, with her customary reasonableness, "if you don't remember where the restaurant is located, we can ask a policeman."

"No, no, Becky," said Mr. Adams, "don't do that. The restaurant is somewhere around here."

"But, after all, where is it? On what street?"

"Becky, you must not talk like that."

"I'm going to ask a policeman right away," Mrs. Adams said with determination. "What is the name of your restaurant?"

"Why, Becky, I ask you, please, don't worry! No, truly, we must not bother a policeman."

"You have forgotten the name of the restaurant!" said Mrs. Adams.

Mr. Adams groaned, clutching his wet head.

Talking thus, we passed through the entire city and finally saw ahead of us what was evidently the wet desert.

We turned back and, stumbling, ran toward the centre of the city.

"If we could only find a taxi," said Mrs. Adams.

But we did not find a taxi. Evidently they had all been taken by people celebrating the New Year. It was getting on toward twelve o'clock. We ran in the rain, hungry, angry, and tired. The closer we moved toward the centre, the more frequently we met machines with hilarious young people. The centre of the city was full of people. Our nerves had gone altogether to pieces, we winced at every shot, and they resounded on all sides. There was an odour of gunpowder, as during street fighting. Everywhere rattles which emitted the noise of machine-guns were being sold.

"Gentlemen!" Mr. Adams cried suddenly. "Let's have a good time!"

With lightning rapidity he bought a rattle and gaily began to swing it. Some riotous youth struck Mr. Adams on his bald pate with a rattle, and Mr. Adams struck him back on the shoulder.

We went into the first drug-store and ordered sandwiches.

While they were being prepared for us, we sadly clicked our glasses of tomato juice and wished each other happiness. That very minute it struck twelve.

So we met the New Year in the city of San Antonio, in the state of Texas.

43 We Enter the Southern States

THE MORNING after the tempestuous greeting of the New Year we awakened in the Robert E. Lee Hotel with one passionate desire—to go on! To start as soon as possible, this very minute, this very second! In vain did Mr. Adams assure us that San Antonio was a fine city, that it would be unforgivable folly not to see it ("No, seriously, gentlemen"), that we did not understand anything and that we do not wish to understand. We, without previous agreement, repeated sadly one and the same thing: