“But——” I began.
“Yes, you will,” he cried. “You’ll be my guest. I’ve taken a bit of a fancy to you. What’s your name?”
When I had told him, “Duke Straw’s mine,” he said; “though I’m not of strawberry-leaf descent. But it’s a good name for a dreamer, isn’t it? Have you ever read ‘Feathertop,’ by Hawthorne?”
“No,” I said.
“Never mind, then. When you do, you’ll recognize my portrait—a poor creature of straw that moves by smoke.”
“What smoke?” I asked, bewildered.
“Perhaps you’ll find out some day—if Ripley takes a fancy to you.”
“You don’t want me to go to him?”
“Certainly I do. I’m going to take you with me when I tramp to work at 9 o’clock.”
He was so cool and masterful that I could only laugh and walk on with him.