“I just blew in,” he observed to nobody in particular, “and I’m going to hang out for a few days at the best hotel in town.”
“The’ ain’t but one,” volunteered the voluble Smith, stealthily moving his chair that he might get a look at the stranger’s feet. They were neatly covered with tan Oxfords, he satisfied himself; but the toes were not pointed.
“Where’ll I find it?” asked the stranger. “I’m an inspector from the Phœnix Fire Insurance Company,” he added, correctly interpreting the suspicious glances levelled at him and his sparse belongings. “Expect to be in town two or three days, looking over our risks and correcting a map of the town. I do a little life insurance business on the side.”
“Takin’ on any new risks in buildin’s?” inquired the man on the pickle barrel.
“W’y, yes; I ain’t a regular soliciting agent for the Phœnix; but I’ll be mighty glad to write any persons desiring insurance,” replied the stranger. “My name,” he added pleasantly, “is Todd, Albert Todd, at your service, gentlemen.”
Mr. Todd bowed and smiled expansively.
“Wall, ye want t’ cast yer eye over Hiram Plumb’s prop’ty, fust thing you do,” advised the liveryman, with a facetious grimace toward the individual on the pickle barrel. “It’s in a fierce condition.”
The gentleman in question slowly descended from his perch, thoughtfully caressing the seat of his trousers, as he replied in kind.
“Y’ don’t hev to worry none ’bout me, Mister Todd—if that’s your name—I don’t insure in the Phœnix; but Bud Hawley, him that keeps the liv’ry-stable, is a teetotally bad risk. He’s been takin’ au-to-mo-beels t’ board lately, an’ they sure do kick up a powerful smell o’ gasolene.”
“I’ve got a permit,” hastily interposed Mr. Hawley. “I c’n show it to you.”