But the wonder soon abated, and Bobby began to think of his great mission in the city.  He got tired of gazing and wondering, and even began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they sauntered along, and the gayly-dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle butterflies, on the sidewalk.  It was an exciting scene; but it did not look real to him.  It was more like Herr Grunderslung’s exhibition of the magic lantern, than any thing substantial.  The men and women were like so many puppets.  They did not seem to be doing any thing, or to be walking for any purpose.

He got out of the butcher’s cart at the Old South.  His first impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of the puppets.  He did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and for several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the spot.

“All right!” exclaimed he to himself at last.  “I am here.  Now’s my time to make a strike.  Now or never.”

He pulled Mr. Bayard’s card from his pocket, and fixed the number of his store in his mind.  Now, numbers were not a Riverdale institution, and Bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one indicated.  A little study into the matter, however, set him right, and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller’s name over his store.

“F.  Bayard,” he read; “this is the place.”

“Country!” shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the street at that moment.

“Just so, my beauty!” said Bobby, a little nettled at this imputation of verdancy.

“What a greeny!” shouted the little vagabond from the other side of the street.

“No matter, rag-tag!  We’ll settle that matter some other time.”

But Bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop, he determined to correct it as soon as possible.

A spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a mischievous glance at him as he entered.

“Mr. Bayard keep here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, I reckon he does.  How are all the folks up country?” replied the spruce clerk, with a rude grin.

“How are they?” repeated Bobby, the color flying to his cheek.

“Yes, ha-ow do they dew?”

“They behave themselves better than they do here.”

“Eh, greeny?”

“Eh, sappy?” repeated Bobby, mimicking the soft, silky tones of the young city gentleman.

“What do you mean by sappy?” asked the clerk, indignantly.

“What do you mean by greeny?”

“I’ll let you know what I mean!”

“When you do, I’ll let you know what I mean by sappy.”

“Good!” exclaimed one of the salesmen, who had heard part of this spirited conversation.  “You will learn better by and by, Timmins, than to impose upon boys from out of town.”

“You seem to be a gentleman, sir,” said Bobby, approaching the salesman.  “I wish to see Mr. Bayard.”