overcoat.

"Don't say nothin' more," he ordered, heartily. "I'm only too glad to do
a feller a favor any time, if it's a possible thing. That's me, that is.
I shouldn't think of chargin' you a cent, but of course this cruise is a
little mite off my track and it's late and--er--well, suppose we call it
three dollars? That's fair, ain't it?"

"Oh, yes, quite, quite. It's very reasonable. Very generous of you. I'm
extremely grateful, really."

This prompt and enthusiastic acceptance of his offer was a bit
disconcerting. Raish was rather sorry that he had not said five.
However, to do him justice, the transaction was more or less what
he would have called "chicken-feed stuff." Mr. Pulcifer was East
Wellmouth's leading broker in real estate, in cranberry bog property,
its leading promoter of deals of all kinds, its smartest trader.
Ordinarily he did not stoop to the carrying of passengers for profit.
But this particular passenger had been delivered into his hand and
gasoline WAS expensive.

"Jump right in, Mister," he said, blithely. "All aboard! Jump right in."

His fare did not jump in, exactly. He climbed in rather slowly and
painfully. Raish, stowing the suitcase between his feet, noticed that
his shoes and trouser legs above them were spattered and daubed with
yellow mud.

"You HAVE had some rough travelin', ain't you, Mister?" he observed.
"Oh--er--what did you say your name was? Mine's Pulcifer."