hand toward the pile of lumber, "come and see me and we 'll talk it
over." He took a card out of a morocco case, and wrote a line on it.
"Come to that address at nine o'clock tonight."

I took the bit of pasteboard as he handed it up.

"All right, sir, I 'll be there on time."

"Come to the side door," he added swiftly, lowering his voice, "the one
on the south. Give three raps. By the way, what is your name?"

"Gordon Craig," I answered without pausing to think. His eyes twinkled
shrewdly.

"Ever been known by any other?"

"I enlisted under another; I ran away from home, and was not of age."

"Oh, I see; well, that makes no difference to me. Don't forget, Craig,
the side door at nine."

I glanced back as we turned the corner; he was still standing at the
edge of the walk, tapping the concrete with his cane. Out of sight I
looked curiously at the card. It was the advertisement of a clothing
house, and on the back was written "P. B. Neale, 108 Chestnut Street."

The mules walked the half dozen blocks back to the lumber yard, while
my mind reviewed this conversation. There was a bit of mystery to it
which had fascination, because of a vague promise of adventure.
Evidently this man Neale had need of a stranger to help him out in some