Wilson, who was not much given to forming chance acquaintanceships, was at first inclined to be suspicious, and yet it was he who made the next advance, prompted, however, by his eagerness for information.
“Do you know anything about sailing lines to South America?” he asked.
The older man removed his pipe. Wilson thought he looked a bit startled––a bit suspicious at the question.
“What port?” he asked.
It occurred to Wilson that it might be just as well not to divulge his real destination. The only other South American port he could think of was Rio Janeiro, on the east coast.
“How about to Rio?”
“Hell of a hole––Rio,” observed the stranger, with a sad shake of his head. “But fer that matter so’s everywhere. Never found a place what wasn’t. This is,” he affirmed, sweeping his pipe in a semicircle.
“You’re right there,” agreed Wilson, the blue sky above clouding before his eyes.
“I’ve heern there’s goneter be an earthquake here 116 some day. Swaller up the whole darned place. Guess it’s so.”
Wilson studied the man once more; he began to think the fellow was a trifle light-headed. But he decided not; he was probably only one of those with so strong an individuality as to be thought queer. The stranger was staring out to sea again as though, in the trend of fresh speculations, he had lost all interest in the conversation. However, in a minute he withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and, without turning his head, asked,