"Simply a good-for-nothing vagabond—tramp."
"What'd he want?"
"Search me."
"But why the devil didn't you tell me this before?"
"You don't mean to say you attach any importance to the mere fact that an ordinary tramp—"
"I attach importance to many things that other people overlook. That's my artfulness. I don't suppose it has occurred to you that tramps follow the railroads, and that Long Island is free of the vermin for the simple reason that the Long Island Railroad doesn't lead anywhere any self-respecting tramp would care to go?"
"It's true—I hadn't thought of that. So that makes the appearance of a tramp in these parts a cir-spicious sus-cumstance?"
"It does. Now tell me about him—everything."
So the truth would out, after all. Whitaker resignedly delivered himself of the tale of the mare's-nest—as he still regarded it. When he had come to the lame conclusion thereof, Ember yawned and rose.
"What are you going to do about it?" Whitaker inquired with irony.