He picked up the suitcase--an expensive suitcase it was, elaborately
strapped and buckled, with a telescope back and gold fittings--and
hastened toward the wagon. Mr. Young had just picked up the reins.

"Oh,--oh, I say!" faltered the boy. We have called him "the boy" all
this time, but he did not consider himself a boy, he esteemed himself
a man, if not full-grown physically, certainly so mentally. A man,
with all a man's wisdom, and more besides--the great, the all-embracing
wisdom of his age, or youth.

"Here, I say! Just a minute!" he repeated. Jim Young put his head around
the edge of the wagon curtain. "Eh?" he queried. "Eh? Who's talkin'? Oh,
was it you, young feller? Did you want me?"

The young fellow replied that he did. "This is South Harniss, isn't it?"
he asked.

Mr. Young chuckled. "Darn sure thing," he drawled. "I give in that it
looks consider'ble like Boston, or Providence, R. I., or some of them
capitols, but it ain't, it's South Harniss, Cape Cod."

Doctor Holliday, on the back seat of the depot wagon, chuckled. Jim
did not; he never laughed at his own jokes. And his questioner did not
chuckle, either.

"Does a--does a Mr. Snow live here?" he asked.

The answer was prompt, if rather indefinite. "Um-hm," said the driver.
"No less'n fourteen of him lives here. Which one do you want?"