shoulder, affectionately, familiarly, and shouted:

"Who would have dreamed we'd run across good old Barnesy up here? By
Jove, it's marvellous!"

"Friends, countrymen," boomed Mr. Rushcroft, "this is Mr. Barnes of
New York. Not the man the book was written about, but one of the best
fellows God ever put into this little world of ours. I do not recall
your names, gentlemen, or I would introduce each of you separately and
divisibly. And when did you leave New York, my dear fellow?"

"A fortnight ago," replied Barnes. "I have been walking for the past
two weeks."

Mr. Rushcroft's expression changed. His face fell.

"Walking?" he repeated, a trifle stiffly. Was the fellow a tramp? Was
he in no better condition of life than himself and his stranded
companions, against whom the mockery of the assemblage was slyly but
indubitably directed? If so, what was to be gained by claiming
friendship with him? It behooved him to go slow. He drew himself up to
his full height. "Well, well! Really?" he said.

The others looked on with interest. The majority were farmers, hardy,
rawboned men with misty eyes. Two of them looked like mechanics,--
blacksmiths, was Barnes' swift estimate,--and as there was an odor of
gasolene in the low, heavy-timbered room, others were no doubt
connected with the tavern garage. For that matter, there was also an
atmosphere of the stables.