As he surveyed the man before him, Bill was as fussed as the giant of the fairy story had been by a display of yellow.  He was uncertain whether he was giving his own baptismal name or somebody’s else.

“By Jing!  No, I don’t know you, but you sure are the dead spit of a fellow I do know!” said Bill.

“Well, he has done me the favor of introducing me to you, anyway,” said Prather, who had a remarkably ingratiating smile.  “I would like a place to stop while I take a look around.  Is there a hotel?”

“Rooms over the store and grub at Mrs. Smith’s—­none better!”

“That will do.”

As they rode into town more than one passer-by called out a ringing “Hello, Jack!” or, “Back, eh, Jack?  Hurrah for you!” and then uttered an exclamation of disillusion when Prather turned his head.

“The others see it, too,” said Bill.

“They seem to.  Who is this double of mine?”

“Jack Wingfield.”

“Jack Wingfield?  It seems that our first names are the same, too.  He lives here, I take it.”

“Yes.  But he’s away now.”

“Well, when he comes back”—­with a pause of slight irritation—­“there will be no difficulty in telling us apart.”

He put his finger to a triangular patch of mole on his cheek.  His irritation passed and a sense of appreciative amusement at the distinction took its place.

“Now, where shall I find Jasper Ewold?” he asked, as Bill drew up before the Smiths.

A few minutes later the Doge, busy among his orange-trees, hearing a step, looked up with a signal of recognition which changed to blank inquiry when the cheek with the mole was turned toward him.

“Upon my word, sir, I—­I thought that you were—­” he began.

“Mr. Wingfield!  Yes, everybody in town seems to think so at first glance, so I am quite used to the comparison by this time,” Prather put in, easily.  “It is very interesting to meet the founder of a town, and I have come to you to find out about conditions here.”

Prather did not appear as if he had ever done manual labor.  He was too young to have turned from ill health or failure in the city to the refuge of the land.  Indeed, his quiet gray suit of good material indicated unostentatious prosperity.  Evidently he was well-bred and evidently he was not an agent for a new style of seeding harrow or weed killer.

“You think of settling?” asked the Doge.

“Yes.  From all I have heard of Little Rivers, it’s a community where I should feel at home.”

“Then, sir, we will talk of it at luncheon; it is knocking-off time for the morning.  Yes, I’ll talk as much as you please.  Come on, Mr. Prather!” They started along the avenue of palms, the Doge still studying the face at his side.  “Pardon me for staring at you, but the resemblance to Jack Wingfield at first sight is most striking,” he added.

“Has he travelled much in the West?” asked Prather.