A few days after that, as Jack was coming out of the Post Office, he was stopped by a sun-burned, countrified-looking man, who said:
“Waal, sonny, kin yeou tell me where Nassau Street is?”
“Sure; come right along with me and I’ll steer you into it,” replied the boy, good-naturedly.
But before the countryman could take a step, a dark-featured man, dressed in a checked suit, with a Brazilian sunstone in a gaudy scarf, and a strong odor of the Tenderloin about him, stepped up and, grasping the farmer by the hand, exclaimed:
“Why, how do you do, Silas Hockins? When did you come to town?”
“Waal, naow, yeou seem tew know me, mister, but I’m gosh-darned ef I kin place yeou fur a cent,” answered Farmer Hockins, in a puzzled way.
“Why, I was down in your neighborhood all last summer. Avalanch, New Jersey, is where you live, isn’t it?”
“Waal, naow, I expect yeou’re right there, mister; but I don’t recollect yeou, just the same.”
“My name is Bond—Steve Bond.”
Silas Hockins shook his head, while Jack Hazard, who stood a few feet away, sized the other stranger up for a confidence man.