Neil, Paul, and Foster walked back together, and it was the last that suggested going down to the depot to see the arrival of the Robinson players. So they turned down Poplar Street to Main and made their way along in front of the row of stores there. The village already showed symptoms of excitement. The windows were dressed in royal purple, with here and there a touch of the brown of Robinson, and the sidewalk already held many visitors, while others were invading the college grounds across the street. Farther on the trio passed the bicycle repair-shop. In front of the door, astride an empty box, sat the proprietor, sunning himself and keeping a careful watch on the village happenings. With a laugh Neil left his companions and ran across the street.
"Good-morning," he said. The little man on the box looked up inquiringly but failed to recognize his tormentor.
"Mornin'," he grunted suspiciously.
"I wanted to tell you," said Neil gravely, "that your diagnosis was correct, after all."
"Hey?" asked the little man querulously.
"Yes, it was a cold-chisel that did it," said Neil. "You remember you said it was."
"Cold-chisel? Say, what you talkin'--" Then a light of recognition sprang into his weazened features. "You're the feller that owes me a quarter!" he cried shrilly, scrambling to his feet.
Neil was off on the instant. As the three went on toward the station the little man's denunciations followed them:
"You come back here an' pay me that quarter! If I knew yer name I'd have ther law on yer! But I know yer face, an' I'll--"
"His name's Legion," called Ted Foster over his shoulder.