He had by this time reached Washington Street and had just passed Milk Street when he met George Randolph, who looked as consequential and conceited as ever.
“Good morning, George,” said Robert.
George looked at him doubtfully.
How could he suppose that the boy before him, dressed as well as himself, was the poor fisher boy of Cook’s Harbor?
“I don’t seem to remember you,” said George civilly.
Robert smiled.
“You met me at Cook’s Harbor,” he explained. “I am Robert Coverdale.”
“What! not the young fisherman?” ejaculated George incredulously.
“The same.”
“You haven’t come into a fortune, have you? What brings you here?” demanded the city boy in great amazement.