“Oh, Yes. He’s on view as per advertisement, I understand.”
Average Jones rose and stretched his well-knit frame. “Baltimore will be hotter than the Place-as-Isn’t,” he said plaintively. “Martyrdom by fire! However, I’m off by the five-o’clock train. I’ll let you know if anything special comes of it, Bert.”
Barye’s splendid bronze boar couches, semi-shaded, in the center of Monument Park, Baltimore’s social hill-top. There Average lounged and strolled through the longest hour of a glaring July morning. People came and went; people of all degrees and descriptions, none of whom suggested in any particular the first century, B. C. One individual only maintained any permanency of situation. He was a gaunt, powerful, freckled man of thirty who sprawled on a settee and regarded Average Jones with obvious and amused interest. In time this annoyed the Ad-Visor, who stopped short, facing the settee.
“He’s gone,” said the freckled man.
“Meaning Livius, the Roman?” asked Average Jones.
“Exactly. Lucius Livius, son of Marcus Praenestinus.”
“Are you the representative of this rather peculiar person, may I ask?”
“It would be a dull world, except for peculiar persons,” observed the man on the settee philosophically. “I’ve seen very many peculiar persons lately by the simple process of coming here day after day. No, I’m not Mr. Livius’ representative. I’m only a town-bound and interested observer of his.”
“There you’ve got the better of me,” said Average Jones. “I was rather anxious to see him myself.”
The other looked speculatively at the trim, keen-faced young man. “Yet you do not look like a Latin scholar,” he observed; “if you’ll pardon the comment.”