Again Mr. Judkins started; he even stepped back a pace to get a better
view of the stranger, who had approached so stealthily through the dim
light that the agent was unaware of his existence until he spoke.

"Who be you?" he demanded, eyeing the man suspiciously.

"Never mind who I am," retorted the other in a grumpy tone; "the
original question is 'who are the nabobs?'"

"See here, young feller; this ain't no place fer tramps," observed Mr.
Judkins, frowning with evident displeasure; "Chazy Junction's got all it
kin do to support its reg'lar inhabitants. You'll hev to move on."

The stranger sat down on a baggage truck and eyed the private car
reflectively. He wore a rough gray suit, baggy and threadbare, a flannel
shirt with an old black tie carelessly knotted at the collar, a brown
felt hat with several holes in the crown, and coarse cowhide shoes that
had arrived at the last stages of usefulness. You would judge him to be
from twenty-five to thirty years of age; you would note that his face
was browned from exposure, that it was rather set and expressionless but
in no way repulsive. His eyes, dark and retrospective, were his most
redeeming feature, yet betrayed little of their owner's character. Mr.
Judkins could make nothing of the fellow, beyond the fact that he was
doubtless a "tramp" and on that account most unwelcome in this retired
neighborhood.

Even tramps were unusual at Chazy Junction. The foothills were sparsely
settled and the inhabitants too humble to be attractive to gentlemen of
the road, while the rocky highways, tortuous and uneven, offered no