“No, sir, not that; but I thought you not rich.”
“Don’t always judge by the clothes a man wears, Number 91. I own a large farm, and fifty thousand dollars in railroad stocks. That is rich for the country.”
“I don’t often get so much as this, sir.”
“I suppose not. But I have got a good deal of information out of you. I have heard much that surprised me, that I couldn’t have learned in any other way. So you are welcome to the dollar, and I think I have got my money’s worth.”
“I am very much obliged to you, sir.”
“That’s all right. Now, Number 91—by the way, what is your real name?”
“Paul Parton, sir.”
“Then, Paul, if you ever come my way, I should like to have you spend a week or a month on my farm, as a visitor. I live in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, about a couple of miles from the city, and I’ll promise to give you enough to eat at less than you have to pay at the Jim Fisk restaurant.”
Paul thanked him with a smile, and turned to leave the ferry.
In the waiting room was a tall, bearded man, who looked something like a miner, as indeed he was, just returned from a long sojourn in California.