“I beg your pardon—­really I beg your pardon,” he stammered over and over again.  “I quite forgot.  It was inexcusable of me.  I’m so sorry.”

Evidently he felt that he had committed a crime.  Mr. Pulcifer took the three one dollar bills and waved the apologies aside with them.

“Don’t say a word, Mr. Bangs,” he called, cheerily, as the car began to move.  “Anybody’s liable to forget.  Do it myself sometimes.  Well, so long.  Hope to see you again one of these days.  Good-night.”

The flivver moved rapidly away, gaining speed as it rushed for the hill.  Galusha Bangs watched its tail-light soar and dwindle until it disappeared over the crest.  Then, with a weary sigh, he picked up the heavy suitcase, plodded across the road and on until he reached the step and platform of Erastus Beebe’s “General and Variety Store.”  There was a kerosene lamp burning dimly upon the counter within, but the door was locked.  He pounded on the door and shook it, but no one answered.  Then, remembering Mr. Pulcifer’s instructions, he entered the yard behind the store, found the door of Mr. Beebe’s house and knocked upon that.  There was not even a light in the house.  The Beebes had gone—­as most of East Wellmouth had gone—­to the baked beans and brown-bread supper and sociable at the church.  Galusha Bangs was not aware of this, of course.  What he was aware of—­painfully, distressingly aware—­ was the fact that he was alone and supperless, very, very weak and tired, and almost discouraged.

However, there was no use in standing in the wet grass of the Beebe yard and giving way to his discouragement.  Galusha Bangs was a plucky little soul, although just now a weak and long-suffering one.  He waded and slopped back to the store platform, where he put down his suitcase and started on a short tour of exploration.  Through the fog and darkness he could dimly perceive a signpost standing at the corner of the crossroad where the store was located.  He tramped over to look at it.

There were two signs affixed to the post.  By the aid of the pocket flashlight he read them.  That at the top read thus:  “To the lighthouse—­1 1/2 miles.”  There was an arrow pointing along the crossroad and off to the right.  Galusha paid little attention to this sign; it was the other nailed beneath it which caught and held his attention.  It was a rather gaudy sign of red, white, and blue, and it read thus:  “The Restabit inn at Gould’s bluffs—­1 mile.”  And the arrow pointed in the same direction as the other.

Mr. Bangs uttered his favorite exclamation.

“Dear me!  Why, dear me!”

He read the sign again.  There was no mistake, his first reading had been correct.

He trotted back to the platform of Mr. Beebe’s store.  Then, once more dragging forth the big pocketbook, he fumbled in its various compartments.  After spilling a good many scraps of paper upon the platform and stopping to pick them up again, he at length found what he was looking for.  It was an advertisement torn from the Summer Resort advertising pages of a magazine.  Holding it so that the feeble light from Mr. Beebe’s lamp fell upon it, Galusha read, as follows: