Rod, Gun, and Palette in the High Rockies 



thus began for me, the artist, the events hereafter following. 

 In the midst of afternoon tea-drinking (as is my English habit) at 

 a near by house, came this scrap of dialogue, breaking in on my 

 discourse: 



"Take that phone, Fred," from my respected hostess. 



"As I was saying, mother," I endeavor to continue. 



"Nancy wants you on the phone, Jim." 



Mrs. Jim beats me to it. "Oh, Jim. Nancy says Adam is 

 at the house for you. ALL RIGHT, Nancy. Tell Adam to 

 wait. We'll come right over." 



Then follow good-byes, and a sharp walk. 



"Good afternoon, Adam." 



"Oh, Auntie Mate," excitedly suggests Nancy, "let's ride 

 two blocks down with Uncle Jim." 



They do. At the end of the appointed two blocks there are 

 two more good-byes and the business of waving a cap. 



In five minutes Adam pulls up in front of my friend Wroe's 

 house. I enter. Wroe, an overcoat over his arm, greets me. "All 

 ready?" 



"Yes." 



"Let's take a last look round." And Bill makes a careful 

 scrutiny, halting with evident suspicion in front of an inoffensive 

 tobacco jar on the table, but concludes it's all right. 



Then follows Sheridan Road with its homeward bound stream 

 of automobiles, the slanting sun lying in golden bands across the 

 asphalt. Lincoln Park swims in a floating golden haze broken 

 by vibrantly violet bulks of trees and half hidden buildings. Com- 

 ment on the new apartment building at the south end of the park 

 towering above the trees. The large last gleam of evening sun 

 on the big bay of the Lake Shore^Drive. Adam bores right along 

 — steady as a locomotive engineer. I comment on Adam's 

 steadiness. No temperament. 



"No," agrees Bill. "Adam is nearly an ideal chaflFeur that 

 way." 



The word "temperament* recalls a conversation at Wroe's 

 house a couple of evenings before. The men were talking golf. 

 I said that Ouimet, the champion, was said to be stolid and devoid 

 of imagination. 



"Sure," confirmed Wroe. "It takes that kind to play the 



