Dean turned in the direction of the voice and his glance fell on a man of perhaps twenty-five, who was stretched comfortably under a tree by the roadside. He had a knapsack and wore a velveteen suit. Something in his appearance gave Dean the impression that he was an actor.
Responding to his greeting, which was accompanied by a pleasant smile, Dean answered "Good day!"
"Where are you traveling, young chap?"
"I don't know," responded Dean. "I suppose I am on my way to the village."
"Do you live about here?"
"No, I live in New York State."
"So do I, when I'm at home, but I'm not often at home."
"Are you an actor?"
"That's what I call myself. That's what I am styled by admiring friends, though some of the critics are unkind enough to express doubts. At present I am in hard luck. I came West with a dramatic company which has gone to pieces. I am traveling homeward on my uppers. Permit me to introduce myself," and he doffed a soft hat which he wore, "as Cecil Montgomery, not wholly unknown to the metropolitan stage."