He kept his eyes wide open, and noticed all that came in his way. Everywhere throngs of busy wayfarers, and not one of whom he had ever seen before. It seemed strange to him, for in Pocasset he knew everybody.
"The world is larger than I thought," he reflected, "and there are more people in it. I wish I could see one familiar face."
He had hardly formulated the wish when his glance rested on a form that seemed strangely familiar. It was a man, tall, slender, with a slouching gait.
"That must be Lyman Taylor," he decided, with a natural start of astonishment.
It was indeed the man whom he had last seen in the woods at Pocasset. He had not thought to meet him, though he remembered now to have heard that Lyman had been sent to the West by his uncle.
On the whole, Mark was not as much pleased as he expected to see this familiar face. He did not care to be recognized, as Lyman might have his curiosity excited, and make him trouble.
Suddenly Lyman turned, and his glance fell upon Mark. The boy lowered his head, and walked on without notice. Lyman did not recognize him, though he was vaguely conscious of something familiar in Mark's appearance. But before he left New York, Mark had been provided with a new check traveling suit, and a hat of a different style from the one he was accustomed to wear.
Moreover, Lyman had no thought of meeting the country boy in a western city. So he turned his glance in a different direction, and descended the steps that led to a basement pool and billiard room.
"I would follow him down there, if I dared risk discovery," thought Mark. "However, it is none of my business what he does, as long as he doesn't annoy his uncle."
Lyman Taylor would have been glad to see Mark, or any one else representing his uncle. The sum he had brought away with him had nearly all melted away, and his prospects were by no means brilliant. The thought of engaging in any employment by which he might earn an honest and independent livelihood was by no means attractive to him.