The travelers were loitering along at the port, watching the steamers arrive and depart, when Bob suddenly caught sight of something that caused him to nudge his friend.
“Look at that fellow over there,” the youth pointed out. “Isn’t he an American?”
Almost at once Mr. Wallace made a reply. “He is as sure as I’m born. Or else”—the naturalist hesitated—“he’s English.”
The object of their remarks was a short, fat young man of perhaps twenty, with twinkling eyes and a pug nose. He was dressed in khaki outdoor clothes that stretched tightly over his protruding stomach.
Before Bob and the naturalist could make a further move, the strange young man walked over to them, his small, deeply set eyes flashing with merriment.
“Ain’t you from the good old U. S. A., or ain’t you?” he demanded, extending a short, fat hand.
“From nowhere else!” Bob was overjoyed. “And I take it that you are?”
“Right as four chipmunks!” the little fellow said quickly. “You’re lookin’ at Chubby Stevens, from Houston. And now that I’ve got that off my chest, I ain’t expectin’ you to hold your names a secret.”
Bob laughed.
“This is Mr. Wallace, and my name’s Holton—Bob Holton. I’m from Washington and my friend’s from Chicago.”