“Gosh, he ought to,” said the postmaster.
Wilfred took the old man home. In the single room which the little dwelling contained was an atrocious crayon portrait of “Pop,” executed many years back, showing him resplendent in his blue uniform and peaked cap. There was an old-fashioned center table with a white marble top on which lay a copy of General Grant’s Memoirs. There was a picture of Lincoln; the shrewd, kindly humorous face seemed to be smiling at Wilfred; he could not get away from it.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” Wilfred said. “I’ll come for you on the twenty-fifth and take you to Kingston and bring you back.”
“I wouldn’t go in none of them automobiles,” Pop warned.
“Oh, I haven’t got an automobile, never fear,” Wilfred laughed. “But I’ve got the use of a horse and buggy and I know how to drive; that’s one thing I know how to do—and swim.”
“I got maybe to wait all day,” said the old man.
“All right, then I’ll wait too.”
The old man seemed incredulous. Yet, oddly, he did not ask Wilfred who he was or where he belonged. It was only the offer that interested him.
“More’n like you wouldn’t come,” he said.
“More’n like I would,” said Wilfred. “You don’t know me; if I say I’ll do a thing, I’ll do it. You’ve got so much trust in the government, I don’t see why you can’t trust me.”