As we sped into this region and stopped in front of a restaurant with a general store attachment at one side, two youths of that summering texture I have indicated, and both in white, drew near. They were of a shallow, vacant character. The sight of a dusty car, carrying a license tag not of their own state, and with bags and other paraphernalia strapped onto it, seemed to interest them.
“From New York, eh?” inquired the taller, a cool, somewhat shrewd and calculating type, but with that shallowness of soul which I have indicated—quite vacant indeed. “Did you come all the way from New York City?”
“Yes,” said Franklin. “Is there a good restaurant anywhere hereabout?”
“Well, this is about the best, outside the boarding houses and inns around here. You might find it nicer if you stayed at one of the inns, though.”
“Why?” asked Franklin. “Is the food better?”
“Well, not so much better—no. But you’d meet nicer people. They’re more sociable.”
“Yes, now our inn,” put in the smaller one of the two, a veritable quip in his ultra-summer appearance. “Why don’t you come over to our place? It’s very nice there—lots of nice people.”
I began to look at them curiously. This sudden burst of friendship or genial companionship—taking up with the stranger so swiftly—interested me. Why should they be so quick to invite one to that intimacy which in most places is attained only after a period—and yet, when you come to think of it, I suddenly asked myself why not. Is chemistry such a slow thing that it can only detect its affinities through long, slow formal movements? I knew this was not true, but also I knew that there was no affinity here, of any kind—merely a shallow, butterfly contact. These two seemed so very lightminded that I had to smile.
“They’re nice genial people, are they?” I put in. “Do you suppose we could introduce ourselves and be friendly?”
“Oh, we’d introduce you—that’s all right,” put in this latest Sancho. “We can say you’re friends of ours.”