At the close came a dish of what
Bellingham called premature strawberries.
"Why! they're actually _sweet_!" said Meredith, "and they're as
natural as emery-bags."
"Yes, they're all you say," said Bellingham. "You can have
strawberries any time nowadays after New Year's, if you send far
enough for them; but to get them ripe and sound, or distinguishable
from small turnips in taste, is another thing."
Lemuel had never imagined a breakfast like that; he wondered at
himself for having respected the cuisine of the St. Albans. It
seemed to him that he and the person he had been--the farm-boy, the
captive of the police, the guest of the Wayfarer's Lodge, the
servant of Miss Vane, and the head-waiter at the hotel--could not be
the same person. He fell into a strange reverie, while the talk, in
which he had shared so little, took a range far beyond him. Then he
looked up and found all the others' eyes upon him, and heard
Bellingham saying, "I fancy Mr. Barker can tell us something about
that," and at Lemuel's mystified stare he added, "About the amount
of smoke at a fire that a man could fight through. Mr. Seyton was
speaking of the train that was caught in the forest fires down in
Maine the other day. How was it with you at the St. Albans?"
Lemuel blushed. It was clear that Mr. Bellingham had been reading
that ridiculous newspaper version of his exploit.
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