"Then git out where you can see it plainer," says he.
"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says I. "That's for the common herd, ain't it? Now, I—— Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you who I am."
"Say it quick then," says he. "Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the Secretary of the Navy?"
"You're warm," says I. "I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay Harbor."
"Sho!" says he, removin' his pipe and beginnin' to act human.
"Happen to know Ira?" says I.
"Ought to," says he. "First cousins. You from Boston?"
"Why, Cap!" says I. "What have I ever done to you? Now, honest, do I look like I—but I'll forgive you this time. New York, Cap: not Brooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight New York, West 17th-st. And I've come all this way just to see Mr. Higgins."
"Gosh!" says he. "Ira always did have all the luck."
Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we was joshin' away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin' out all the sights. And, believe me, the State of Maine's got some scenery scattered along the wet edge of it! Honest, it's nothin' but scenery,—rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, and then a few more rocks.