“I beg your pardon?  What?  Yes, I am—­I fear I am.  Is it—­is it a very long walk back to Wellmouth?”

“To the Centre?  Three good long Cape Cod miles.”

“And is the-ah—­the road good?”

“’Bout as you see it most of the way.  Macadam ain’t so bad, but if you step off it you’re liable to go under for the third time.”

“Dear me!  Dear me!”

“Dear me’s right, I cal’late.  But what do you want to go to the Centre for?  Hall don’t live there.  He lives on ahead here—­at East Wellmouth.”

“Yes—­that’s true, that’s true.  So you said.  But the South Wellmouth station man—­”

“Oh, never mind Nelse Howard.  He’s a smart Aleck and talks too much, anyhow.  He made a mistake, that’s all.  Now I tell you, Mister, I’m goin’ to East Wellmouth myself.  Course I don’t make a business of carryin’ passengers and this trip is goin’ to be some out of my way.  Gasoline and ile are pretty expensive these days, too, but—­ Eh?  What say?”

The pale face beneath the derby hat for the first time showed a ray of hope.  The eyes behind the spectacles were eager.

“I—­I didn’t say anything, I believe,” was the hurried answer, “but I should like to say that—­that if you could find it possible to take me with you in your car—­if you could do me so great a favor, I should be only too happy to pay for the privilege.  Pay—­ah—­ almost anything.  I am—­I have not been well and I fatigue easily.  If you could—­”

Mr. Pulcifer’s hand descended squarely upon the shoulder of the dark 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.