But Joe did not notice. If he had perhaps he would have seen that the beard was false, though unusually well adjusted.
Joe turned his steps toward the river front. It was a dark night, for the sky was cloudy and it looked like rain.
Joe just missed one ferryboat, and, as there would be some little time before the other left, he strolled along the water front, looking at what few sights there were. Before he realized it, he had gone farther than he intended. He found himself in a rather lonely neighborhood, and, as he turned back a bearded man, who had been walking behind the young pitcher for some time, stepped close to him.
"I beg your pardon," the man began, speaking as though he had a heavy cold, "but could you direct me to the Reading Terminal?"
"Yes," said Joe, who had a good sense of direction, and had gotten the "lay of the land" pretty well fixed in his mind. "Let's see now—how I can best direct you?"
He thought for a moment. By going a little farther away from the ferry he could put the stranger on a thoroughfare that would be more direct than traveling back the way he had come.
"If you wouldn't mind walking along a little way," said the man eagerly. "I'm a stranger here, and——"
"Oh, I'll go with you," offered Joe, good-naturedly. "I'm not in any hurry."
Be careful, Joe! Be careful!