“Can you tell me where I will find a Mr. Adam B. Shattuck, who used to own the Wabash Woolen Mills here?” I inquired.
“I’m the man—Adam B. Shattuck. Just excuse me a minute, will you, while I wait on this boy.”
I stared at him in rude astonishment, for he seemed so worn, so physically concluded. His face was seamed and sunken, his eyes deep tired, his hands wrinkled.
“You’re Mr. Shattuck, are you? Well, I’m the son of Paul Dreiser, who used to work for you. You don’t remember me, of course—I was too young——”
“This isn’t by any chance Theodore, is it?” he commented, his eyes brightening slightly with recognition.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said.
“Your brother Paul,” he said, “when he was out here a few years ago, was telling me about you. You write, I believe——”
“Yes.”
“Well, of course, I’ve never known of you except indirectly, but—how long are you going to be in town?”
“Only this morning,” I replied. “I’m just passing through. This isn’t my car. I’m traveling in it with a friend. I’m visiting all the old places just for the fun of it. I was just coming to you to ask if you could tell me where the old mill stood—whether it’s still standing.”