East Wellmouth's about two and a ha'f ahead. Haw, haw! that's a good one, ain't it!”      

       His companion's laugh was not enthusiastic. It was as near a groan as a laugh could well be. He put the yellow suitcase down in the mud and looked wearily up and down the fog-draped road. There was little of it to be seen, but that little was not promising.     

       “Dear me!” he exclaimed. “Dear me!” And then added, under his breath: “Oh, dear!”      

       Mr. Pulcifer regarded him intently. A new idea was beginning to dawn beneath the plaid cap.     

       “Say, Mister,” he said, suddenly, “you're in a bad scrape, ain't you?”      

       “I beg your pardon? What? Yes, I am—I fear I am. Is it—is it a VERY long walk back to Wellmouth?”      

       “To the Centre? Three good long Cape Cod miles.”      

       “And is the-ah—the road good?”      

       “'Bout as you see it most of the way. Macadam ain't so bad, but if you step off it you're liable to go under for the third time.”      

       “Dear me! Dear me!”      

       “Dear me's right, I cal'late. But what do you want to go to the Centre for? Hall don't live there. He lives on ahead here—at East Wellmouth.”      

       “Yes—that's true, that's true. So you said. But the South Wellmouth station man—”      

       “Oh, never mind Nelse Howard. He's a smart Aleck and talks too much, anyhow. He made a mistake, that's all. Now I tell you, Mister, I'm goin'       to East Wellmouth myself. Course I don't make a business of carryin'       passengers and this trip is goin' to be some out of my way. Gasoline and ile are pretty expensive these days, too, but—Eh? What say?”      

       The pale face beneath the derby hat for the first time showed a ray of hope. The eyes behind the spectacles were eager.     

       “I—I didn't say anything, I believe,” was the hurried answer, “but I should like to say that—that if you COULD find it possible 

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