“We’d better get along.”
“That’s right. And keep far away from Main Street. Gee! My little trip has certainly raised the dickens; and all on account of Pierre Dufour’s stupidity.”
Slowly and cautiously the two walked to the corner, and seeing nothing but a deserted street, started briskly off, keeping a watchful eye open for any signs of danger. Half an hour later, they entered a small restaurant near the river front, and enjoyed the best in the house.
The meal and a long rest put them in better spirits again, and when they walked outside it was to see that the rain had stopped enough to allow a patch of blue sky to show between the slowly moving clouds.
“This is a bit better,” remarked George, with satisfaction; “but I wish it had stopped before it began. Where shall we go? Why, down by the river, I guess. Your legs tired? It’s a good thing you can’t feel mine—no Marathons for me.”
The boys continued their walk, never going very far from the river. On the outskirts of the city, they came across an old man sitting on a log, puffing contentedly away on a short pipe. Close by his side was a shaggy dog.
The old fellow looked up as the two approached. His face, bronzed a deep brown, was seamed with wrinkles, but his eyes were kindly and a smile curled his lips.
“Afternoon, youngsters,” he said, cheerfully.
“How are you?” replied George and Aleck, almost in a breath.
“Fair to middlin’. Me name’s Bill Hollback.”