"What a funny name!"
"Yes, it is a queer name, and its owner is a little queer, also, but he is a good fellow for all that. He is a genuine specimen of the Yankee, Mr. Grosvenor."
"I should like to see him," said Mr. Grosvenor, smiling. "Invite him to call."
"I will, sir, thank you. Though he is unpolished, I believe you will find that he has something in him."
Mr. Tarbox was back in his place in the exposition building. He had not ceased to mourn for Frank. Still he felt in better spirits than usual, for he had had an interview with a wealthy American capitalist, who had looked into the merits of his plow, and half-promised that he would pay him ten thousand dollars for a half ownership of the patent. This would make Mr. Tarbox a man of great wealth in his native place (Squashboro', State o' Maine), and enable him to triumph over his friends and relations, who had thought him a fool for going to the expense of a trip to Europe, when he might have invested the same sum in a small farm at home.
He was busily engaged in thinking over his prospects, when he was startled by a familiar voice.
"How do you do, Mr. Tarbox?" said Frank, saluting him.
"What!" gasped Mr. Tarbox, fixing his eyes upon our hero in a strange mixture of incredulity, wonder, bewilderment and joy.
"Why, Mr. Tarbox, you don't seem glad to see me," said Frank. "You haven't forgotten me, have you?"