the Midnight Sun
As he went out to his breakfast of coffee and whisked wheat at the Hustler Lunch the lines between the blocks of the cement walk , radiant in a white flare of sunshine , irritatingly recalled the cross-lines of order-lists , with the narrow cement blocks at the curb standing for unfilled column-headings . Even the ridges of the Hustler Lunch 's imitation steel ceiling , running in parallel lines , jeered down at him that he was a prosaic man whose path was a ruler . He went clear up to the branch post-office after breakfast to get the Sunday mail , but the mail was a disappointment . He was awaiting a wonderful fully illustrated guide to the Land of the Midnight Sun , a suggestion of possible and coyly improbable trips , whereas he got only a letter from his oldest acquaintance -- Cousin John , of Parthenon , New York , the boy-who-comes-to-play of Mr. Wrenn 's back-yard days in Parthenon . Without opening the letter Mr. Wrenn tucked it into his inside coat pocket , threw away his toothpick , and turned to Sunday wayfaring . He jogged down Twenty-third Street to the North River ferries afoot . Trolleys took money , and of course one saves up for future great traveling .