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The locomotive bell rang, the train clashed and tugged and went on. Worlds within worlds, ad infinitum, if we only knew! One man travels in a Pullman car, another in a box-car. The train gone, with a final fluttering of old dropped papers in the suction under the caboose, Hank and Slim picked up the blanket-rolls from behind a stack of ties where they had tossed them, came across and joined me.

There were two hotels in North Bend, the guests of each not aware of how the guests of the other lived. One of these hotels, trellised, and the trellis all climbed upon with greenery, was set back beyond a sloping lawn kept emerald by a sprinkler that twisted at the end of a long hose-pipe. The trousers of the men sitting on that kindly-shaded veranda were pressed. Then there was another hotel back among trees, but with no lawn, no sprinkler, no trellis of climbing green, and patronized by men whose trousers were not pressed.

We went to neither hotel. Many are the different worlds within the world. We waited till none observed and then, walking across the track, plunged into what Hank called the jingles, meaning jungles, saying it so in the same tone as Slim's when he said hus instead of us, as though he knew better but with implication that it was the thing to say jingles, even as bindle for bundle, in some set to which he gave fealty.