Page:Triangles of life, and other stories.djvu/31

 behind his ear with the ball of his palm, and asked, as an afterthought, or last chance—

"Does it matter much?"

"Beg pardon," I said.

"Is it particular?" he said.

"Well," I said, "the last train leaves before midnight, I believe, and I want to be there before then."

"O—o—oh!" he said. "Why that's—let's see— that's—that's—why, you've got eight or ten hours yet." Then, confidently, "Tell you what to do I They sell good ale here: an' a comfortable parlour. You might drop in for awhile an' have a rest, and by that time me or some one might be able to direct yer. No, I don't want any. I'll jest watch here in case a likely director comes along. Or, wait a minute, I could direct where you'll find a policeman! There's one on point just round the corner."

I looked at him hard, but could make nothing of him. He was a Bushman in disguise, I think.

However, I found High Holborn. Or, rather, it found me, and swung me in, and there I bumped against a buck youth with a vacantly inquiring expression, prominent pale eyes, and very large and prominent buck teeth. Otherwise he was just the kind of new chum we set grubbing about the Homestead until we can trust him alone beyond the first fence. He was examining and picking his teeth with great attention in a grotesque mirror on one side of a shop window—a fat woman with a shawl was fixing her hair and hat in the other, which was concave—hairpins and hatpins between her teeth. I passed