“Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mystery?” said Wells-Fargo’s man, Ferguson. “Why, the fourth dimension’s foolishness to him.”
For Ferguson was learned.
Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody wanted to tell him; everybody began. But Billy Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to order, and said one at a time was best. He distributed the drinks, and appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson said,
“Well, he’s a boy. And that is just about all we know about him. You can pump him till you are tired; it ain’t any use; you won’t get anything. At least about his intentions, or line of business, or where he’s from, and such things as that. And as for getting at the nature and get-up of his main big chief mystery, why, he’ll just change the subject, that’s all. You can guess till you’re black in the face—it’s your privilege—but suppose you do, where do you arrive at? Nowhere, as near as I can make out.”
“What is his big chief one?”
“Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct, maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your choice—grownups, twenty-five; children and servants, half price. Now I’ll tell you what he can do. You can start here, and just disappear; you can go and hide wherever you want to, I don’t care where it is, nor how far—and he’ll go straight and put his finger on you.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“I just do, though. Weather’s nothing to him—elemental conditions is nothing to him—he don’t even take notice of them.”
“Oh, come! Dark? Rain? Snow? Hey?”
“It’s all the same to him. He don’t give a damn.”