"That's the one I take," said Jim. "Match you to see who engages berths for both of us."
"I'll gladly engage one for you without matching," declared Martin, a proffer which Jim immediately accepted.
They lounged together that evening, and the more Jimmy knew of Martin, the better he liked him. There was something homely and sane about the man that appealed to him. For a time he kept subconsciously questioning why he maintained a peculiar feeling that this was not the first time they had met; yet this sense of unrest was dissipated by the respect he had formed for him, quite unaccountably. He was, indeed, surprised with himself for his liking when he realized how satisfactory it was to have Martin sharing his journey on the following day. In his perpetual journeyings he had met many men who were congenial, men of the goodfellow type, but here was a man who had but little of the customary "goodfellow" attributes and habits, and who yet won his regard. There was the disparity of ages, the contrast of taciturnity with free expression, and a large lack of mutual experience; but somehow all these barriers were not supervened to the detriment of their fellowship. Jim felt as if he were with an acquaintance—most friendly too—of years standing, long before they arrived at Baltimore.
"Perhaps you can recommend me to a good hotel," said Martin, as they neared their destination. "I've never stopped in Baltimore. In fact, I'm a total stranger there."
"Why stop at a hotel at all?" suggested Jimmy, generously. "Why not come out and put up with me? My mother's the finest there is! We're pretty plain people, but it ought to beat being in a hotel. I'll have three days home this time, and I'll show you down to Struthers' place, and—by jingoes!—you shall be introduced to big Bill, my pet tree, in his winter clothes, and if I can't make you believe in Maryland hospitality, it won't be my fault."
Martin accepted as directly as he appeared to decide everything. And the beauty of it was that Mrs. Gollop, who shared her son's hospitable nature, accepted and made welcome the guest that Jimmy brought home as if she were thoroughly accustomed to her son's unconventional methods.
"Does he always bring strangers home like this?" asked Martin, with a faint smile, on the second day of his visit after Jim's mother had been eloquently expatiating on Jim's idiosyncrasies and virtues during the latter's temporary absence.
"You never can tell what Jimmy will do," she replied with a laugh, and then thoughtfully stared through her window into the street. "But I am always certain that he will do the honest, decent, and generous action. He laughs his way through the world, but in the laugh is never malice nor cruelty. His sole failing is that he cannot resist a joke. He has always been so. His sense of the ridiculous is absurdly out of proportion to his serious side. I used to feel hopeless for his future because he laughed so much; but now I know the difference. One may still laugh and be loyal in all things. He has no false ideas or unattainable ambitions. He has no false pride. He believes in doing his best in all things. He is sorry for those who are unfortunate, and unenvious of those who have succeeded. He is sincere, and he is unassuming, a good friend, and a tolerant enemy. His tastes are simple, his pleasures homely."
She stopped, flushed and, added, "But I boast too much! Yet I can't help it because—well—because there has never been such a son as mine, and I'm not ashamed to feel proud of him!"
But Mr. Martin was now looking out of the window, and, Mr. Martin did not smile.