“I don’t want your hotel, boys,” he said. “But if you can tell me where Clarendon is, I will be obliged.”
“Cla’endon! seh? yass, seh,” said one, “right out at de een’ o’ de village, seh—dis street tek’s yo dyar, seh, sho nuf.”
“Which end of the village?” Croyden asked.
“Dis een’, seh, de fust house beyon’ Majah Bo’den’s, seh.”
“How many blocks is it?”
“Blocks, seh!” said the negro. “’Tain’t no blocks—it’s jest de fust place beyon’ Majah Bo’den’s.”
Croyden laughed. “Here,” he said, “you take my bag out to Clarendon—I’ll walk till I find it.”
“Yass, seh! yass, seh! I’ll do it, seh! but yo bettah ride, seh!”
“No!” said Croyden, looking at the vehicle. “It’s safer to walk.”
He tossed the negro a quarter and turned away.