"Mebbe you're advertisin' suthin'? Oh, I want to know! Be you the winged wonder o' Westchester, or some sech place I hear tell on jest now?"
A light began to glimmer in Hudson's mind. He had been asked several times if he was the "winged wonder," but had paid no attention to the question, supposing that it was merely a form of the great public wit. Now it was asked him in perfect good faith, and the name of his own home was added to the alliteration. He began to connect his persecution with Holworthy and Randolph's failure to row.
"No," he answered his friendly interrogator, "not intentionally, but I am beginning now to suspect that I am occupying some such position. I am much obliged to you for your information. I must move along now."
"Good day, sir; guess ye'll want a heap o' corn-plasters when ye git to Framin'am."
"Not with these stockings," laughed Hudson, glad of an opportunity to justify his clothes, "they're thick and soft, great things to walk in."
"They be, eh? Well, I kinder thought they wasn't just for looks. I don't want none to-day, though, good day."
"Good-by," and Steve went on, feeling sure that the old man still suspected him at least of peddling footgear.
Just before the end of his tramp he sat down for a rest on an inviting fence rail. He had plenty of time to spare, but the grassy bank might have kept him too long and made him stiff. Oh, how pleasant that three-cornered rail did feel! A piece of paper blew across the road and whirled up in his face. It was a hand-bill of some sort; he remembered now having seen several of them along the way, but had picked up none. He caught this one and turned it over. This was what he read: