"The young gentleman ye was spakin' to: is he gone?"
"He is in the café, getting his supper. What did you want of him?"
The weak-eyed little man was running a slow finger down the list of names on the guest-book, blinking as if the writing or the glare of the lights on the page dazzled him.
"I drove him, and he did be overpaying me, I think. What was ye saying his name would be?"
"It's right there, under your finger: Kenneth Griswold, New York."
"Um. And I wondher, now, where does he be living, whin he's at home?"
"I don't know; New York, I suppose, since he registers from there."
"And does he be staying here f'r awhile?"
"No; he is on his way to Minnesota."
"Um." A long pause followed in which the cabman appeared to be counting the coins in his pocket by the sense of touch. Then: "Would yez be writing that down for me on a bit av paper, Misther Edwards?—his name, and the name av the place where he does be going, I mane?"