“I’m going along there myself, sir; it is several blocks yet.”
“Wal, ’t seems ter me,” snarled the other, taking his place by the side of Weeks, “thet this ’ere street hain’t got no end, nor no numbers ter speak of. I looked in one o’ them things over at the hotel—a d’rectory I b’lieve the clerk called it—but I don’t see as it helped me any.”
“It’s pretty hard for a stranger to find his way about New York, that’s a fact.”
The old fellow flashed a sudden look at his companion, which was not lost on the sly Weeks. The farmer had “read up” on “bunco men” and their ways, and expected that the polite stranger would suggest showing him about the city a little.
But Weeks didn’t; he wasn’t that kind.
Finding that the fellow seemed totally uninterested as to whether he found his way about the metropolis or not, the countryman gained a little confidence in his new acquaintance.
“New York streets hain’t much like Providence streets,” he said. “Ye kin find yer way ’round them; but I defy any one ter know whether they’re goin’ straight here, or not.”
Mr. Weeks smiled and nodded, but let the other do most of the talking. He went on the principle that if you give a fool rope enough he’ll hang himself; and although the old fellow thought himself exceedingly shrewd, and took pains to dodge the real object of his visit to New York, in seeking to be pleasant to his new acquaintance he “gave the whole thing dead away,” as the astute Alfred mentally expressed it.
“Ye see,” said the old man. “I’m down here a-lookin for my nevvy, Brandon, who’s run away from me. Nothing else would ha’ got me down here right in the beginnin’ of the spring work.”
Weeks started slightly, but otherwise showed no signs of special interest; but as the old fellow ran on about the terrible state he expected his affairs would be in because of his absence, Mr. Alfred Weeks did some pretty tall thinking.