“You’re right.”
“Why, we haven’t done anything.”
“No, but we’re going to do something, and if they knew it, it would be their duty to stop us.”
“Well, why don’t you come out, or why can’t I go in there?” demanded Lester. “There’s no one, except village people, in sight.”
“There’s where you are mistaken,” replied Jones. “Look across the street. Do you see that fellow on the opposite sidewalk who appears to be so deeply interested in something he sees in the window of that dry-goods store?”
Yes, Lester saw him. He had seen him before, and took him for just what he appeared to be—a country boy out for a holiday. His tight black trowsers would not come more than half-way down the legs of his big cowhide boots; his felt hat was perched on the top of a thick shock of hair which looked like a small brush-heap; his short coat sleeves revealed wrists and arms that were as brown as sole-leather; and the coarse red handkerchief which was tied around his face seemed to indicate that he was suffering from the toothache. But if he was, it did not prevent him from thoroughly enjoying his lunch—a cake of ginger-bread and an apple which he had purchased at a neighboring stand, and which he devoured with so much eagerness, as he stood there in front of the window, that everybody who saw him laughed at him.
“I see some gawky over there,” said Lester, after he had taken a glance at the boy.
“That’s no gawky,” replied Jones. “It’s Don Gordon.”
Lester was profoundly astonished. He faced about and looked again. There was nothing about that awkward clown, who did not know what to do with his big feet, that looked like the neat and graceful Don Gordon he had met a short time before.
“You’re certainly mistaken,” said Lester. “Don’s pride wouldn’t let him appear in the public street in any such rig as that.”