“That’s a pleasant trip to be on,” was our hero’s comment.
“I’ll feel better when I have the six hundred dollars in my fist. I’m afraid it ain’t goin’ to be no easy matter to git it.”
“What’s the trouble!”
“I ain’t known in Philadelphy an’ they tell me a feller has got to be identified or somethin’ like thet—somebody has got to speak for ye wot knows ye.”
“I see. Perhaps you’ll meet some friend.”
“Thet’s wot I’m hopin’ fer.”
The train rolled on and presently Joe got out his map and began to study it, so that he might know something of the great city when he arrived there.
“Guess I’ll git a drink o’ water,” said Josiah Bean, and walked to the end of the car to do so. Immediately a slick looking man who had been seated behind the farmer arose and followed him.
A SCENE ON THE TRAIN.
The slick-looking individual had listened attentively to all that passed between our hero and the farmer.
He waited until the latter had procured his drink of water and then rushed up with a smile on his face.
“I declare!” he exclaimed. “How do you do?” And he extended his hand.
“How do you do?” repeated the farmer, shaking hands slowly. He felt much perplexed, for he could not remember having met the other man before.
“How are matters up on the farm?” went on the stranger.
“Thank you, very good.”
“I—er—I don’t think you remember me, Mr. Bean,” went on the slick-looking individual.
“Well, somehow I think I know your face,” answered the old farmer, lamely. He did not wish to appear wanting in politeness.
“You ought to remember me. I spent some time in Haydown Center year before last, selling machines.”
“Oh, you had them patent reapers, is that it?”
“You’ve struck it.”
“I remember you now. You’re a nephew of Judge Davis.”
“O’ course! O’ course! But I can’t remember your name nohow.”
“It’s Davis, too—Henry Davis.”
“Oh, yes. I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Davis.”
“I saw you in the seat with that boy,” went on the man we shall call Henry Davis. “I thought I knew you from the start, but I wasn’t dead sure. Going to Philadelphia with us?”
“Good enough. Mr. Bean, won’t you smoke with me? I was just going into the smoker.”
“Thanks, but I—er—I don’t smoke much.”
“Just one mild cigar. That won’t hurt you, I’m sure. I love to meet old friends,” continued Henry Davis.
In the end the old farmer was persuaded to walk into the smoking car and here the slick-looking individual found a corner seat where they would be undisturbed.
“I expect to spend a week or more in Philadelphia, Mr. Bean,” said the stranger; “if I can be of service to you during that time, command me.”