“All I want of whatever 'tis you've got in that bag. I never buy nothin' of peddlers. So you're just wastin' your time hangin' around. Trot along now, I'm on my way.”
He stepped to the side of the car, preparatory to climbing to the driver's seat, but the person with the suitcase followed him.
“Pardon me,” faltered that person, “but I'm not—ah—a peddler. I'm afraid I—that is, I appear to be lost. I merely wish to ask the way to—ah—to Mr. Hall's residence—Mr. Hall of Wellmouth.”
Raish turned and looked, not at the suitcase this time, but at the face under the hat brim. It was a mild, distinctly inoffensive face—an intellectual face, although that is not the term Mr. Pulcifer would have used in describing it. It was not the face of a peddler, the ordinary kind of peddler, certainly—and the mild brown eyes, eyes a trifle nearsighted, behind the round, gold-rimmed spectacles, were not those of a sharp trader seeking a victim. Also Raish saw that he had made a mistake in addressing this individual as “young feller.” He was of middle age, and the hair, worn a little longer than usual, above his ears was sprinkled with gray.
“Mr. Hall, of—ah—of Wellmouth,” repeated the stranger, seemingly embarrassed by the Pulcifer stare. “I—I wish to find his house. Can you tell me how to find it?”
Raish took the cigar, which even the bump against the lamp door had failed to dislodge, from the corner of his mouth, snapped the ash from its end, and then asked a question of his own.
“Hall?” he repeated. “Hall? Why, he don't live in Wellmouth. East Wellmouth's where he lives.”
“Dear me! Are you sure?”
“Sure? Course I'm sure. Know him well.”
“Oh, dear me! Why, the man at the station told me—”
“What station? The Wellmouth depot, do you mean?”
“No, the—ah—the South Wellmouth station. You see, I got off the train at South Wellmouth by mistake. It was the first Wellmouth called, you know, and I—I suppose I caught the name and—ah—rushed out of the car. I thought—it seemed to be a—a sort of lonely
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