river as if absorbed in the scenery.

The Georgian was not to be easily rebuffed. Crossing his legs and
planting his big hat on his knees, he went on:

"You are from the North, I calculate?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. We can mostly tell 'em. From Boston, I reckon?"

"No."

"New York, mabby? No? Chicago? No? Wall, where in--" the Georgian
stopped, checked by a look in the bluish-gray eyes which seldom failed
in its effect.

Evidently the stranger didn't choose to tell where he lived, but the
Georgian, though somewhat subdued, was not wholly silenced, and he
continued: "Ever in Florida before?"

"No."

"Wall, I s'pose you're takin' a little pleasure trip like the rest of
us?"

To this there was no response, the stranger thinking with bitterness
that his trip was anything but one of pleasure. There was still one
chord left to pull and that was Tom Hardy, who in a way was voucher for
this interloper, and the Georgian's next question was: "Do you know Tom