“Speakin’ of automobiles,” began Bailey Stitt for the third time.

“That youngster of yours, Hiram,” went on the depot master, “is the right kind.  Compared with some of the summer young ones that strike this depot, he’s a saint.”

Captain Hiram grinned.  “That’s what I tell Sophrony,” he said.  “Sometimes when Dusenberry gets to cuttin’ up and she is sort of provoked, I say to her, ‘Old lady,’ I say, ’if you think that’s a naughty boy, you ought to have seen Archibald.’”

“Who was Archibald?” asked Barzilla.

“He was a young rip that Sim Phinney and I run across four years ago when we went on our New York cruise together.  The weir business had been pretty good and Sim had been teasin’ me to go on a vacation with him, so I went.  Sim ain’t stopped talkin’ about our experiences yet.  Ho! ho!”

“You bet he ain’t!” laughed the depot master.  “One mix-up you had with a priest, and a love story, and land knows what.  He talks about that to this day.”

“What was it?  He never told me,” said Wingate.

“Why, it begun at the Golconda House, the hotel where Sim and I was stayin’.  We—­”

“Did you put up at the Golconda?” interrupted Barzilla.  “Why, Cap’n Jonadab and me stayed there when we went to New York.”

“I know you did.  Jonadab recommended it to Sim, and Sim took the recommendation.  That Golconda House is the only grudge I’ve got against Jonadab Wixon.  It sartin is a tough old tavern.”

“I give in to that.  Jonadab’s so sot on it account of havin’ stopped there on his honeymoon, years and years ago.  He’s too stubborn to own it’s bad.  It’s a matter of principle with him, and he’s sot on principle.”

“Yes,” continued Baker.  “Well, Sim and me had been at that Golconda three days and nights.  Mornin’ of the fourth day we walked out of the dinin’ room after breakfast, feelin’ pretty average chipper.  Gettin’ safe past another meal at that hotel was enough of itself to make a chap grateful.

“We walked out of the dinin’ room and into the office.  And there, by the clerk’s desk, was a big, tall man, dressed up in clothes that was loud enough to speak for themselves, and with a shiny new tall hat, set with a list to port, on his head.  He was smooth-faced and pug-nosed, with an upper lip like a camel’s.

“He didn’t pay much attention to us, nor to anybody else, for the matter of that.  He was as mournful as a hearse, for all his joyful togs.

“‘Fine day, ain’t it?’ says Sim, social.

“The tall chap looked up at him from under the deck of the beaver hat.

“‘Huh!’ he growls out, and looks down again.

“‘I say it’s a fine day,’ said Phinney again.

“‘I was after hearin’ yez say it,’ says the man, and walks off, scowlin’ like a meat ax.  We looked after him.

“‘Who was that murderer?’ asks Sim of the clerk.  ’And when are they going to hang him?’