“Nothing to what?” inquired Tony.
“That man Guy wrote about. He’s a traveling jewelry salesman. I thought he might be stopping here, and he was; but he’s gone now.”
“Were you thinking about him yet?” exclaimed Tony. “I told you there was nothing to it. What’s ’is name?”
“Stanley Pickett.”
“Forget ’im.”
Walter did—for a few weeks.
CHAPTER IV
Seeing London in a Fog
London!
Guy forgot all about his poor eyesight, except to regret occasionally that he was forced to take his first view of that great city through colored glasses. The Old World had been almost a mystic hemisphere to his mind from his earliest reading days. In his younger boyhood he had entertained some elusive and confusing ideas concerning persons and things far removed from his daily association. He had wondered if so great a man as the president of the United States were real flesh and blood, and even now he could not dismiss lightly some of his myth-fed mental pictures of Europe, as if the latter were located on a distant and doubtful-natured planet of another universe.
“Does the grass that grows over there look like the grass that grows on our lawn?” was the question that had come to him sometimes as he studied in school the history of the country over which hung the storied glamour of King Arthur and Robin Hood. And when he for the first time got near enough to a patch of little green blades in London to pluck one and examine it, he felt a flush of confusion at the foolishness of the act.