“No, I don’t believe so.” The visitor chuckled.
“Never met any one who had. Guess I’m about the only resident of that metropolis who ever strayed out of it. There’s one fellow in our town, though, who went down to Portland once about forty years back. He’s looked on as quite a traveler in Jonesboro.”
Jack smiled. “My folks live near Auburn,” he said.
“Nice place, Auburn. By the way, my name’s Tidball—Anthony Z. Z stands for Zeno; guess I’m a sort of a Stoic myself.” The remark was lost on Jack, whose acquaintance with the Greek philosophers was still limited.
“My name’s Weatherby,” he returned. “My first name’s Jack; I haven’t any middle name.”
“You’re lucky,” answered the other. “They might have called you Xenophanes, you see.” Jack didn’t see, but he smiled doubtfully, and the visitor went on. “Well, now we know each other. We’re the only fellows in the hut and we might as well get together, eh? Guess I saw you this afternoon down at the river, didn’t I?”
Jack flushed and nodded.
“Thought so.” There was a moment’s silence, during which the visitor’s shrewd eyes studied Jack openly and calmly and during which all the old misery, forgotten for the moment, came back to the boy. Then—
“Guess you can’t swim, eh?” asked the other.