"That explains your flying leap on the boat, but did you jump across the pond also?" asked Van Vort. "The last time I saw you, you were going to Chicago; then I heard you were in London, and now you make an amazing appearance on a Jersey ferry. You must have taken up jugglery, old chap."
"An old loafer like you doesn't know anything about business; if you did you might appreciate my flights."
"Never mind if I don't," answered Van Vort, resting his arm on the rail and gazing into the water as it surged under the paddle wheels. "Tell me what took you to London and what brought you back."
"Well, I went to Chicago, as you know," answered Duncan, "to look after an elevator syndicate. I was there a week, got things straightened up, took the 'Limited' on Thursday, reached New York Friday night, spent Saturday morning at the office, and sailed that afternoon, on the Umbria, to look after the London end of the scheme."
"That was last January. How have you been eluding your friends ever since?"
"I was in London until two weeks ago. I came in on the Etruria this morning; we should have landed Sunday, but we broke our shaft and had to be towed in."
"Well, Duncan, I am glad to see you back; but you must give an account of yourself. What did you do in London besides business?"
"During February and March I was groping about in the fog after Britons to invest in Chicago elevators, or following the hounds in the Shires. London in winter is the beastliest place in Christendom, and when I could get away I was in the country."
"Yes; I know London in the winter," put in Van Vort. "Fogs and suffocation, rain and muddy boots, slush and colds, sleet and influenza, all combine to make a dreary mackintosh and umbrella existence, which you can vary in-doors by shivering before fires that won't burn."
"I see you've been there," answered Duncan; "but you want to add something about empty theatres and clubs, and say it is a city deserted by every person who can buy, borrow, or steal a railway ticket to the country. But for one guardian angel, I should not be here to tell this tale."
"I can name that angel," said Van Vort; "it is Scotch whiskey."
"I thought so. All sufferers seek the same cure; but April and May were better, weren't they?"