“Yes. I was to stay at the hotel till train time.”
“Is this your grip?”
Weir jerked a thumb towards a worn canvas “telescope” fastened with a single shawl strap, resting in the corner of the booth.
“It’s mine. Yes, sir.”
“How old is Ed Sorenson,” he asked, after a pause.
“About thirty, maybe.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen next month.”
“But sixteen yet this month.”
“Yes, sir.”