“Ashbury in Vermont,” I replied, without the slightest feeling that he was intrusive.
He stopped short in the street and looked me up and down reflectively, but without comment.
“I’ve been watching you at these fool meetings,” said he, falling into step again.
In spite of myself I experienced a glow of gratification at having been the object of his interest.
“Fool meetings?” I echoed inquiringly.
“Suppose, by a miracle, all that lot could agree, and could start for California to-morrow, in a body–that’s what they are organized for, I believe,” he countered–“would you go with them?”
“Why not?”
“Martin is why not; and Fowler is why not; and that little Smith runt, and six or eight others. They are weak sisters. If you are going into a thing, go into it with the strong men. I wouldn’t go with that crowd to a snake fight if it was twelve miles away. Where do you live?”
“West Ninth Street.”
“That’s not far. Have you a good big room?”