Bowker assumed a look of offended dignity. "Jush as you say," he replied. "Some other time. In Boston, hey? At Tim's place. Only Tim's place is gone." A great grief assailed him. "Tim's gone—dropped out—as though the earth swallowed him up—"
"Yes, yes," said the young man soothingly. "That's too bad. But you come with me."
Submitting at last, Bowker permitted his companion to pilot him to the street. John Quincy looked across at Chan.
"My steward on the President Tyler," he explained. "The worse for wear, isn't he?"
The waiter set a fresh piece of pie before the Chinaman.
"Ah," remarked Chan, "this has a more perfect appearance." He tasted it. "Appearance," he added with a grimace, "are a hellish liar. If you are quite ready to depart—"
In the street Chan halted. "Excuse abrupt departure," he said. "Most honored to work with you. The results will be fascinating, I am sure. For now, good evening."
John Quincy was alone again in that strange town. A sudden homesickness engulfed him. Walking along, he came to a news-cart that was as well supplied with literature as his club reading room. A brisk young man in a cap was in charge.
"Have you the latest Atlantic?" inquired John Quincy.
The young man put a dark brown periodical into his hand. "No," said John Quincy. "This is the June issue. I've seen it."