The request to be driven slow was so superfluous that Mr. Lumley paid no attention to it. He puffed industriously at the Snowflake and watched his companion, who, leaning forward on the seat, was gazing out at the town and the bay beyond it. The “depot hill” is not as high as Whittaker's Hill, but the view is almost as extensive.
“Excuse me, Mister,” observed Gabe, after an interval, “but you ain't said where you're goin'.”
The passenger came out of his day dream with a start.
“Why, that's right!” he exclaimed. “So I haven't! Well, now, where would you go, if you was me? Is there a hotel or tavern or somethin'?”
“Yup. There's the Bayport Hotel. 'Tain't exactly a hotel, neither. We call it the perfect boardin' house 'round here. You see—”
He proceeded to tell the story of “the perfect boarding house.” His listener seemed greatly interested, and although he laughed, did not interrupt until the tale was ended.
“So!” he said, chuckling. “Bailey Bangs, hey? Stub Bangs! Well, well! And he married Ketury Payson! How in time did he ever find spunk enough to propose? And Ketury runs the perfect boardin' house! Well, that ought to be job enough for one woman. She runs Bailey, too, on the side, I s'pose?”
“You bet you! He don't dast to say 'boo' to a chicken when she's 'round. I say, Mister! I don't know's I know your name, do I? I judge you've been here afore so—”
“Yes, I've been here before. Whose is that big place up there across our bows? The one with the cupola on the main truck?”
“That, sir,” said Mr. Lumley, oratorically, “belongs to the Honorable Heman G. Atkins, and it's probably the finest in this county. Heman is our representative in Washin'ton, and—Did you say anything?”