but—but will you kindly tell me where I am?”      

       It was not a loud, aggressive voice; on the contrary, it was hesitating and almost timid, but when one is supposedly alone at twilight on the East Wellmouth road any sort of voice sounding unexpectedly just above one's head is startling. Mr. Pulcifer's match went out, he started violently erect, bumping his head against the open door of the lamp compartment, and swung a red and agitated face toward his shoulder.     

       “I—beg your pardon,” said the voice. “I'm afraid I startled you. I'm extremely sorry. Really I am.”      

       “What the h-ll?” observed Raish, enthusiastically.     

       “I'm very sorry, very—yes, indeed,” said the voice once more. Mr. Pulcifer, rubbing his bumped head and puffing from surprise and the exertion of stooping, stared wide-eyed at the speaker.     

       The latter was no one he knew, so much was sure, to begin with. The first impression Raish gained was of an overcoat and a derby hat. Then he caught the glitter of spectacles beneath the hat brim. Next his attention centered upon a large and bright yellow suitcase which the stranger was carrying. That suitcase settled it. Mr. Pulcifer's keen mind had diagnosed the situation.     

       “No,” he said, quickly, “I don't want nothin'—nothin'; d'you get me?”      

       “But—but—pardon me, I—”      

       “Nothin'. Nothin' at all. I've got all I want.”      

       The stranger seemed to find this statement puzzling.     

       “Excuse me,” he faltered, after a moment's hesitation, during which Raish scratched another match. “I—You see—I fear—I'm sure you don't understand.”      

       Mr. Pulcifer bent and lighted the second lamp. Then he straightened once more and turned toward his questioner.     

       “I understand, young feller,” he said, “but you don't seem to. I don't want to buy nothin'. I've got all I want. That's plain enough, ain't it?”      

       “But—but—All you want? Really, I—”      

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