“That’s just what you are, Brent,” Harry said; “you’re a Philistine. You have no romance. Just because you live in the twentieth century you think nothing can happen. But the world war happened, didn’t it? You have it from a man you met that two mysterious strangers visited the old gent who once owned that coat. You found this paper; in that coat—didn’t you?”
Brent said, “Alas, yes.”
Harry said, “Well, you can laugh——”
Brent said, “I’m not laughing, I’m weeping and gnashing my teeth; that’s true sixteenth century stuff, isn’t it?”
“Well, how do you explain the writing on that paper, then?” Harry wanted to know.
“Sure, how do you explain it, then?” Westy piped up.
“He can’t explain it,” Tom Warner shouted.
“Sure he can’t!” Pee-wee yelled.
Brent said, “I seem to have an overwhelming minority.”
Harry said, “You’re always shouting about real adventures, but when we stumble on the real thing, when we’re told on black and white to follow a line due north from willow—what does that say?”