“No more can I. Why, you are the man they said would not even take the trouble to strike a match to light your own cigarette if your valet were within call. As for dressing yourself, it was said you had never been compelled to perform such a menial task. And now I meet you here—in such an outfit! I am the one who is dreaming! I shall awaken in a moment!”
Fred Forest laughed heartily in a well-bred manner, grasping Frank’s hand and shaking with a truly aristocratic movement, which showed he was sure to “do the proper” wherever he might be.
“It’s no dream as far as I am concerned, my dear boy,” he assured. “I am here, in the flesh—and in this outfit.”
“Are you going into the woods on a sporting trip?”
“I assure you not! Quite the contrary. But how do you happen to be here?”
Frank explained in a few well-chosen words, making clear without telling a long story just why he was in Mattawamkeag.
“I just came down to the station to see about purchasing tickets for Bangor,” he finished. “I was astounded to see you step off the train as it came in.”
“So you are on your way down the river, and I just came up. And you and your friends have planned to go down to-day?”
“Yes.”
“Better stop over till to-morrow. I’m here on business. We’ll have a jolly good time talking over the great games and races between our respective alma maters. You’re in no particular rush. Say you’ll stop.”