On Tuesday morning the party hurried through their breakfast in order to catch the tally-ho which was to pause in its mad career to pick up passengers from their hotel. Although it was a cloudy morning, threatening rain, they did not like to postpone this trip again. Consequently ten o’clock, the hour set, beheld them “all agog to dash through thick and thin” like John Gilpin.

Presently something drew up at the door. It was not what would be called by the critical a tally-ho. It was not even a coach. It was on wheels, it had seats here and there, and four animals dragged it. Baron Munchausen once had his horse cut close off by the fall of a portcullis. If the same accident had befallen a tally-ho, and it had been then spliced to the end of a park wagon, the resulting vehicle would have been not unlike the wagon which presented itself at the door.

“Is this it?” asked Mr. Douglass, dubiously presenting his ticket.

“This,” said the man (he was hardly yet a voter), “is it. Yes, sir. The tally-ho, sir.”

“Well,” remarked Mr. Douglass, turning to the boys, “what do you say?”

“We’d better go,” said Harry. “It’s all arranged; and the wagon looks comfortable anyway. Don’t you say so, Phil?”

“Yes,” said Philip. “It’s no tally-ho, but I don’t know as that makes any great difference. It has wheels, and—horses,” after a pause.

Having taken outside seats, they climbed up on the wheel-hub and two steps, and were soon perched some ten feet above the ground ready to start. Just as they settled themselves in their places, a policeman came to the curb and spoke warningly to the driver, who said, “I can’t help it,” and gathered up the reins.

Mr. Douglass, who was not used to fast riding, made up his mind that their lofty seat might be a risky place to sit, and was gratified to find a stout rail at the back of the seat, which afforded an excellent place to hold on. Harry, too, concluded that they would soon be tearing at breakneck speed through the crowded streets of the city, and began to think he had been unjust to the “tally-ho.”

“We’re off!” said Philip, as the horses heaved at the traces and the wagon changed its place leisurely: At a slow walk they drew the wagon around the corner and stopped at another hotel. A man who seemed to be in charge alighted and entered the door. That was the last seen of him for a considerable period. Queries to the driver were smiled away. They waited and waited. Nothing happened. After their patience was gone, the missing man came back, and the coach floated on.

“Now we’re started!” said Mr. Douglass, with an expression of relief. But the coach rounded a corner in a leisurely manner, and drew up at another hotel. Again the man disappeared, and the waiting was repeated.

“This is not a tally-ho,” said Harry, “it is a tarry-whoa”; and so it proved. Even after the man was again at hand, the old coach went no faster than the slowest of jog-trots. And at the same dolorous gait they loitered along on Woodlawn Avenue, a straight street beautifully paved, and fit to be a blessing to bicyclers. They were as long in passing a given point as was possible. Every vehicle went by them except children’s carriages with nurses; wagons of heavy iron-castings, dirt-carts, streetcars—until one man remarked jocosely that he was afraid a funeral might come up behind and run over them.

Then Harry remembered the policeman who spoke to the driver just as they were starting, and a light dawned upon that mystery.

“You remember that ‘cop’ who talked to our driver?” he asked Philip.

“Yes,” said Philip; “I thought he was warning him against reckless driving.”

“So did I,” said Harry, laughing. “But I’m sure now that he was saying a word for the poor horses. Why, those Fifth Avenue stage-horses they make such fun of in New York are Arabian coursers compared to these! See them creep!”

They passed some gray stone buildings on the way to the business part of the city, and the driver said they were the Chicago University—a statement they accepted at the time, but doubted when they became better acquainted with the driver’s acquirements as a guide. Another great establishment they saw was an old field crowded with tents and labeled “Camp Jackson.” A sign upon its rainbow-tinted fence informed the public that board in that field and under those tents was two dollars a week and thirty-five cents a day.

“It’s a comfort,” said Harry, “to reflect that all these places, rough as they are, mean to offer Fair accommodations.”

At another time this weak pun would not have been noticed, but upon that weary, slow ride anything was a relief: when the horses stopped to drink, it was an event; when a new passenger got on (one did), the excitement was intense. But nothing hastened the wagon. It meant to get to Chicago if it took all day; and after awhile they did begin to see buildings more closely set, and then they entered a beautiful park. The driver said it was Washington Park, and on consulting a map afterward, the boys made up their minds that he had guessed right—there were some things the driver knew.

The park was flat as a board, as is all the country for miles around; but as the ground was mainly given up to beautiful green lawns extending as far as one could see, the effect was excellent, and marred only by some very florid designs laid out in colored plants. One of these designs formed a sun-dial, called “Sol’s Clock”; another showed a few bars of “Hail Columbia.”

Even Mr. Douglass had now given up his visions of dashing along to the sound of a “yard of brass,” and so far from being at all nervous, would not have been afraid to stand upright in any part of the coach. He kept thinking of a parody upon Shakspere’s description of the school-boy: “A tarry-whoa, creeping like snail, unwillingly to Chicago.” By this time they were in Michigan Avenue,—a thoroughfare with beautiful grass plots along the street, but houses that did not please an architect who was also on top of the coach. He declared all but a few of the houses to be fussy and tiresome; and the boys noticed that those he commended were plain and simple in their outlines, and little decorated.

At Twenty-second Street, they saw the Chicago street-cars, and found that they ran in trains of three coupled together, an arrangement of which they heartily approved. As they passed a baker’s cart, a small boy leaned out and whipped the horses of their coach; whereupon several of the passengers thanked him warmly, even though his efforts produced, no result. Still, in time they did reach the city, and recognized the lofty Auditorium, an enormous pile of stone, so many stories high that the boys lost count in attempting to reckon them. Soon after they admired the Art Institute, “a broad and low building of impressive design.” They also saw the foundations being laid for another great building, and remembered having read in St. Nicholas that these heavy structures could be supported only upon artificial foundations, such as long piles driven deep into the soft ground. The Masonic Temple was also seen as they passed through the busy part of the city.

There was a smoky smell in the air, and their first impression was of being down-town in Broadway, New York, when a great fire was raging, filling the air with smoke. Possibly the smoke was worse than usual, for rain was falling at intervals and the air was heavy.

None of them talked much, for the slow drive was anything but enlivening. They went along Lake Street for some time, and then wandered on until they drew up at the Waterworks. Here, despite the protests of the passengers, there was a halt of five minutes, and some got out and went in to see the machinery. When all were on board again, the scenery slowly changed, and they found out that they were in motion once more. But as they had reached the Lake Drive,—a beautiful boulevard, and one of the system of drives that encircles the city, connecting Chicago’s great parks into a ring of pleasure-grounds,—the slow driving was not so irritating. They saw Mr. Potter Palmer’s castellated mansion fronting the lake, and passing other fine dwellings, reached Lincoln Park.

Against the sky, in silhouette, appeared the statue of General Grant, an impressive feature of the park, and they were sorry that their route did not bring them within view of the even finer Lincoln statue, of which they had seen many pictures. Looking forward along the drive, they saw a dark point of land along the horizon beyond the lake, and were told by the rather taciturn driver that it was the city of Milwaukee, which information surprised them quite as much as if he had said it was Bagdad. “Traveling certainly makes one modest,” said Mr. Douglass, who doubted the driver’s statement. “I had no thought of seeing Milwaukee upon this drive.”

Another statue of a man in an old-style curled wig was seen, and the driver told them it was Linn. Even the tutor had never heard of Linn, and all remained puzzled until a turn in the road showed the inscription “Linné,” whereupon they recognized Linnæus. Though they hated to lose the invaluable information the driver was giving them in homeopathic doses, they were glad when the coach worked its way to the front of a park restaurant, and announcement was made that there would be a halt of an hour or more for lunch.

“Mr. Douglass,” said Philip, “I don’t know how you feel, but my feet are as cold as ice, and I’d rather get off and walk.”

“Oh, let’s walk!” Harry chimed in. “I’d rather ride in a canal-boat than to stay in this old coach any more.”

“So would I,” said Mr. Douglass. “I consider this ride a regular swindle. See here!” he went on, turning to the driver’s accomplice,—a young man who rode inside,—“what is the matter with this conveyance? We’ve crept all the way out. Are you going any faster?”

“No, sir,” answered the young man, turning State’s evidence and revealing the whole secret; “the fact is, those horses—look at ’em!—are all played out. They’ve been going over this road for months, and they’re played out.”

“We have had enough of it,” said the tutor, a little sharply, “and we’ll walk.”

“I don’t blame you,” the young man answered, as if he would have liked to join them.

Leaving the park, they inquired how to get back into the business center of the city, and were told to take the cable-cars. These proved to differ in some ways from New York cars, and one feature seemed worthy to be copied. At the ends of each car the side seats ceased, leaving a clear floor all across the car near the door, so that those who were compelled to stand should not obstruct the middle aisle at the doorway.

“That’s a good idea,” Philip remarked, as he pointed out the arrangement to Harry; “for I’ve often noticed how people are sure to stand right in the doorway, blocking up the passage.”

When they were near the end of their trip, the cars ran underground through a whitewashed tunnel, and the boys made up their minds that they were either running under the river or under the railway-tracks.

“It’s about time for lunch,” said Mr. Douglass, looking at his watch; and turning to a young man beside him, he asked where there was a good lunch-room. The young man recommended one, and they felt grateful to him afterward. It was a large establishment, containing several kinds of lunch-rooms. They went into the “business man’s lunch-room,” and had an excellently cooked meal at a fair price.

Until it was time to take the steamer, they wandered about the city looking at the more notable buildings and enjoying the sensation of being in a strange place. The great wholesale stores were like those in parts of New York, but New York had nothing just like some of the lofty buildings of more than twenty stories. Harry said that if there were two or three streets like Broadway and running across one another, or if Broadway were cut off in sections and laid criss-cross, the result would resemble Chicago. They saw the Auditorium again, and the Chamber of Commerce building, as well as some others; but the rain was unpropitious to sight-seeing, and they soon determined to make their way toward the “Whaleback” steamer. Of course they went wrong at first, for Chicago is a puzzling place to strangers, and Harry had to ask a big policeman for directions. He was hardly old enough yet to have lost his awe of “cops,” and felt relieved when the officer showed himself courteous and obliging. From what he had read of Chicago distances, Harry would not have been surprised to have been told he must “go fifteen miles south, then take a cable-car four miles west”; but their destination proved to be not so very far away.

Another cable-car rattled them down to Van Buren Street, and they found themselves, after a short walk, upon the dock awaiting the iron vessel so aptly named “Whaleback.”

The boys were struck with her likeness, as she came close along the dock, to some of the dug-out canoes they had seen at the great Fair. They learned, however, from their friend the architect (whom they met again on the pier) that the boat was seaworthy, carried a large cargo, and was very fast, going even twenty-two miles an hour.

Going aboard, they found her divided into three decks, and very finely fitted up. The second deck, which was even with the top of the hull, had walks along the curved sides of the vessel; for these “tumbled home” so as to be almost level.

In the cabin, Harry found a phonograph which was advertised to sing his favorite “The Cat Came Back”; and he persuaded Mr. Douglass to try it. The tutor’s face, as the song began, lost its usual quiet expression, and soon he grinned quite as broadly as the small boy Harry had sketched at the Fair. Then the boys paid another five cents, and listened to a lively song called, “Drill, ye tarriers, drill”—wherein were introduced sounds of blasting, the singing, the orders of the boss, and all the features of work upon a railway excavation.

But they wasted only a few minutes in the cabin, for the view of Chicago, as the boat steamed out, was well worth seeing. A few rays of sunshine struggled luridly through the heavy pall of dusky smoke that drifted over the city. Here and there great buildings or towers rose above the rest, but the whole effect was soft and hazy. It was a picture of the city that was sure to remain long connected in their minds with the name Chicago.

The trip was not a long one, but Harry found time to pick up acquaintance with a young man from Indiana, and the two were soon pronouncing words for each other’s amusement. He found Harry’s slighting of the letter R very droll, and told the New York boy that his mother had an aunt who was “a regular Yankee,” and said, “Why, I could listen to her talking all day; it does sound so queer!” Harry found the Indianian’s accent quite as strange, and said it reminded him of peculiarities he had noticed in the speech of Virginians.

As they approached the long pier that extended out from the Fair Grounds, Philip began to be uneasy.

“What’s the row, Phil?” Harry asked, noticing that his friend was frowning rather fiercely; “are you sorry to get back?”

“The matter is this camera. I’ve got to take it through the grounds,” Philip replied.

“I thought you had a permit for a week,” said Harry.

“So I have,” replied Philip ruefully; “but it is at the hotel. I took the camera along this morning, hoping that the weather would clear up so I could take something in the city; and I’ve been lugging it about all day without getting anything to speak of. Now here I am with no way to get to the hotel except by going through the Fair, and I haven’t got a permit.”

“Whew!” Harry whistled. “Two dollars out!”

But when Mr. Douglass came up, he was inclined to think there would be no trouble about the camera.

“I’ll tell you what I should do,” he said. “Just walk along boldly, and if any one stops you, tell them the circumstances and then face the music.”

Just as Philip was going through the gate, one of the ticket-takers said, “Say, is that a kodak?”

“Yes,” said Philip, “it is.”

“Have you a permit for it?”

“Yes,” said Philip, “but it’s at my hotel. It’s good for a week, but I didn’t bring it to-day”; and he went on to explain just how matters stood, offering to do whatever was right. “But,” he said, “I’ll tell you one thing—I don’t want to pay two dollars just to carry this camera through the grounds on a cloudy day at five o’clock.”

“I should think not!” said the man, laughing good-humoredly. “I’ll find the inspector and see what he says”; and he walked out along the dock. In a few moments he came back saying, “It’s all right; take it in. The inspector says he couldn’t let you if it wasn’t after four o’clock. You won’t try for any pictures?”

“No,” said Philip, much relieved; and away he went, feeling that honesty was the best policy.

Walking through the Court of Honor just at dusk, they were again delighted with the appearance of the buildings in the soft evening light. The Peristyle was especially artistic, for they saw through the columns the heavy, curling black smoke of the “Whaleback,” as she set out on her return trip to the city. The gilt decorations upon graceful Machinery Hall shone brightly, and they had to stop and gaze around them with renewed delight.

“Perhaps it is just as well that these buildings are not to be permanent,” Mr. Douglass remarked, as they walked on. “We like them all the better for knowing that they are, after all, mere bubbles of staff, blown to delight the eyes for a little while. The architect whom we met on the coach said to me, ‘Somebody hit the nail on the head when he called these Fair buildings an architectural spree—it has been a bit of fun for the architects to show in plaster what they could do in marble; but why can’t some of our cities make a similar smaller show in marble—say an ornamental building like this Peristyle, around a harbor?’”

When they asked for the keys of their rooms, Mr. Douglass received also a letter. “Ah!” he said, “here’s the letter from your father, Harry. Come up into my room and we will read it.” The letter was as follows:

September 21, 1893.

Dear Mr. Douglass: When I telegraphed this morning, I was afraid you would think it strange unless I promised a letter. But now I sit down to write, I feel there is little to add to my despatch. I know Mr. Farwell will arrange business details, and that you will get safely to the Fair. I am sure you will know that I do not expect you to feed the boys on useful knowledge all the while you are in Chicago; but I should like Harry to look carefully after two things. I would like him to see the railroad exhibits, and to see the papers about Columbus. The latter is important, because there will never be so good a collection brought together again. The railroad exhibits I should like him to see, because I wish him to learn what an amount of skill and learning has gone into the modern railroad. Perhaps then the business will attract him, and I shall expect him to take it up when I must resign. As for Philip, he’ll learn more about the Fair by himself than any one can teach him.

I think perhaps a fortnight should be enough to spend at Chicago; but as to that, use your own discretion. I hope that all three of you will enjoy the big show, and I’m sure you will be better Americans for having seen it.

Tell Harry that his mother and I are well, and give him our love. With warmest regards to Philip and best wishes for you all, I am your obedient servant,

Henry Blake.
Mr. James Douglass.

“That’s just what I thought,” said Harry. “He wishes me to get into railroading, and that is one reason he sent me here. I see one thing; I have got to go through the Convent again. I hardly looked at those old documents.”

“We have a few days yet,” said Mr. Douglass; “we will certainly go more carefully over those exhibits. I am glad to hear from your father, though I know his ideas well enough to have been very sure of his intention. I have still plenty of money, but I think that two weeks will be enough to give to the Exhibition. One could not exhaust it in years.”