“Well, the ocean is only four miles deep; I’d take more interest in Cousin Siddy’s ballooning if you could make it a couple of miles more to the dead men’s chests. And now, much as I’d like to prolong this conversation, I’ve got to eat or I’ll miss my train.”
“If you don’t mind saying where you are going, Mr. Ardmore?”
“I’d tell you in a minute, only I haven’t fully decided yet; but I shall probably take the Sambo Flyer at 9.13, if you don’t make me lose it.”
“You have large interests in Arkansas, I believe, Mr. Ardmore?”
“Yes; important interests. I’m searching for the original fiddle of the Arkansaw Traveller. When I find it I’m going to give it to the British Museum. And now you really must excuse me.”
Ardmore looked the reporter over carefully as they shook hands. He was an attractive young fellow, alert and good-humoured, and Ardmore liked him, as, in his shy way, he really liked almost every one who seemed to be a human being.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. If you’ll forget this rot we’ve been talking and come up to Ardsley as soon as I get home, I’ll see if I can’t keep you amused for a couple of weeks. I don’t offer that as a bribe; my family affairs are of interest to nobody but hostlers and kitchen-maids. Wire me at Ardsley when you’re ready, throw away your lead-pencil, then come on and I’ll show you the finest collection of books on Captain Kidd in the known world. What did you say your name is? Collins—Frank Collins? I never forget anything, so don’t disappoint me.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, but I don’t have much time for vacations,” replied the reporter, who was, however, clearly pleased.
“If the office won’t give you a couple of weeks, wire me, and I’ll buy the paper.”
The young man laughed outright. “I’ll remember; I really believe you mean for me to come.”