“I beg pardon, sir,” he said to his neighbor, “is there more of it?”
“Oh, yes, that’s only the first half,” replied the boy, a note of surprise in his voice. “You got here late, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. The train I reached Needham Junction on did not connect with any train for this place and I was obliged to take a fly—er, carriage, that is to say. It took some time.”
“I guess it did!” The boy observed his neighbor interestedly, a bit puzzled. “Too bad to miss a whole quarter after coming so far, sir.”
“I beg pardon, but I’m not—that is, you——” But he gave it up. He wanted to tell the boy that he preferred not to be called “sir,” but he couldn’t think of a way to do it.
“Come from New York?” the boy was asking, frankly curious.
“Yes, sir, but from Baltimore before that. I left there last night. I came to see Mr. Ordway; Mr. Hugh Ordway. You might know him, sir?”
“Know Hobo! Well, I guess! Everyone knows Hobo Ordway!”
“No, sir, Hugh, if you please, sir.”
“I know; that’s him. The fellows call him Hobo on account of his initials; H. O. B. O. don’t you see? Friend of yours, sir?”