Phil admitted to himself that he did not; still, he had come ashore to find Mr. Tramlay, and the idea of giving up the search did not occur to him. He finally asked,—
“Where do you suppose I can find him?”
“At home, I guess, if he’s one of the kind that goes straight home from his store.”
“I reckon he is,” said Phil. “Will you please tell me where he lives?”
“Oh, come off!” muttered the policeman. “D’ye s’pose I ain’t got nothin’ to do but know where folks live? Where was you brought up?—‘way back?”
“I’m sorry I bothered you, sir,” said Phil, who now saw the officer’s uniform, and recognized it, by memory of pictures he had seen in illustrated newspapers. “Isn’t there any way to find out where a man lives in New York?”
“Certainly; look in the Directory. Go up to Broadway,—it’s up at the head of this street,—an’ go along till you find a drug-store. Like enough you’ll find a Directory there.”
Phil followed instructions, and learned the street and number of the Tramlay domicile. In front of him street-cars were continually coming and going, and by the conductors of these he was referred from one to another until he found a car which went to the street he wanted to reach. Although Phil knew the city was large, the journey seemed very long; it was made an hour longer than it should have been; for a fire had broken out somewhere along the route, and engine-hose blockaded the railway-track. When finally the desired street was reached, Phil found himself several hundred numbers away from that he was looking for, and it was then nearly nine o’clock.
“I’ve half a mind to give it up,” said Phil, as he walked rapidly along. “Perhaps they go to bed early: there’s no telling. Still, if they’re abed I’ll know it by the lights being out. I don’t seem to walk down these numbers very fast.”
He quickened his steps; he almost ran; but more than a quarter of an hour passed before he saw on a glass transom the number that indicated his journey was at an end. Phil stopped; then he crossed the street, and surveyed the house carefully.