“What a chance for a ‘bunco man,’” exclaimed the festive Alfred, under his breath. “That’s country, sure enough. I wonder how it ever got here all alone,” and the philanthropic ex-clerk crossed the street at once and fell into the old man’s wake.
Despite his countrified manner, however, there was an air of shrewd, suspicious intelligence about the man of the rusty habiliments. Fortunately for the success of his further plans, Weeks did not seek to accost him at once.
Had he done so he would have aroused the countryman’s suspicions. The latter had come warned and forearmed against strangers who sought his acquaintance.
As they went along, the old man ahead and Weeks in the rear, the latter discovered that the countryman was seeking for something. He went along slowly, with his eyes fixed on the signs on either side, studying each new one as it came in view with apparent interest.
Finally he stopped on the corner of a cross street and looked about him at the rushing, hurried life in perplexity. Now was Mr. Week’s chance.
He strolled slowly along toward the old fellow, the only person without an apparent object, in that whole multitude.
As the ex-clerk expected, the countryman accosted him.
“Say, mister,” he said, in his harsh, cracked voice, which rose plainly above the noise of the street, “kin you tell me the whereabouts of the New England Hotel?”
“Whew!” thought Mr. Weeks. “Pretty shady locality for a respectable farmer. Wonder what the old fellow wants there?”
Then aloud he said: