He was, to put it bluntly, but a few degrees removed in appearance from a tramp, though Bob noticed his face and hands were clean, which is not often the case with tramps.
“I’m in a hurry,” said Bob, as civilly as he could under the circumstances.
“So am I,” said the man with the box. “I’ve got to get to Storm Mountain as quick as I can.”
Storm Mountain was a town well up amid the hills, about five miles from Cliffside. It was located on the side of a big hill also called Storm Mountain.
“Sorry, but I’m not going up Storm Mountain way,” said Bob, as he slowly allowed the flivver to get up speed.
“But I’m willing to pay you!” said the man, shifting his brass-bound box under his other arm as he limped forward—Bob noticed that he walked with a slight limp.
“I’m not a taxicab—you can hire one in town or over there,” and Bob pointed to where usually some ancient autos stood—representing the jitney and taxi service of Cliffside. Just now there were no vehicles there, as they seldom met the 2:30 train.
“I’d hire one if I could,” said the man with the box. “But I can’t. I’ll pay you well to take me to Storm Mountain.”
“I’m sorry, but I have an important engagement in town,” said Bob, as he let his car gather speed. “You’ll have to get some one else.”
“All right,” said the man good-naturedly enough. He turned back to the station, and as he drove off Bob was rather glad that he could conscientiously refuse the service.