“They seem to have bright colors here,” I went on.
“You bet they do,” he continued. “There are a lot of swell dressers here, aren’t there, Ed?”
“That’s right,” replied his summery friend. “Some beauts here. George! You ought to see ’em some days.”
“They’re very glorious, are they?”
“That’s what.”
The conversation now turned back to us. Where were we going? What were we going for? Were we enjoying the trip? Were the roads good?
We told them of Indiana, and rose immediately in their estimation. We finally declined the invitation to be introduced into their circle. Instead we went into this restaurant, where the reception room was also a salesroom of sorts, and here we idled, while awaiting dinner.
I was still examining picture postcards when a young man, quite young, with a pink face and yellowish hair—a Scandinavian, I took it—came up beside me and stood looking at the pictures—almost over my shoulder I thought, though there was plenty of room in either direction. After a few moments I turned, somewhat irritated by his familiarity, and glanced at his shoes and suit, which were not of the best by any means, and at his hands, which were strong and well formed but rough.
“Nice pictures of things about here,” he observed, in a voice which seemed to have a trace of the Scandinavian in it.
“Yes, very,” I replied, wondering a little, uncertain whether it was merely another genial American seeking anyone to talk to or someone desirous of aid. You never can tell.