“You have had some rough travelin’, ain’t you, Mister?” he observed.  “Oh—­er—­what did you say your name was?  Mine’s Pulcifer.”

“Oh, yes—­yes.  Ah—­how do you do, Mr. Pulcifer?  My name is Bangs.”

“Bangs, eh?  That’s a good Cape name, or used to be.  You any relation to Sylvanus Bangs, over to Harniss?”

“No—­no, not that I am aware.  Ours is a Boston branch of the family.”

“Boston, eh?  Um-hm.  I see.  Yes, yes.  What’s your first name?”

“Mine?  Oh, my name is Galusha.”

“Eh?  Ga—­ what did you say ’twas?”

“Galusha.  It is an odd name.”

“Yes, I’d say ’twas.  Don’t cal’late as I ever heard tell of it afore.  Ga—­Ga—­”

“Galusha.”

“Galushy, eh?  I see.  Strange what names folks ’ll christen onto children, ain’t it?  There’s lots of queer things in the world; did you ever stop to think about that, Mister—­Mister Bangs?”

Mr. Bangs, who was leaning back against the upholstered seat as if he found the position decidedly comforting, smiled faintly.

“We have all thought that, I’m sure,” he said. “’There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

Mr. Pulcifer was not easily startled, but his jerk of surprise sent the car perilously near the side of the road.

“How in the devil did you know my name?” he demanded.

“Your name?  Why, you told me.  It is Pulcifer, isn’t it?”

“No, no.  My first name—­Horatio.  I never told you that, I’ll swear.”

Mr. Bangs smiled and the smile made his face look younger.

“Now that’s rather odd, isn’t it?” he observed.  “Quite a coincidence.”

“A what?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.  I didn’t know your name, Mr.—­ah—­Pulcifer.  My using it was an accident.  I was quoting—­ah—­from Hamlet, you know.”

Mr. Pulcifer did not know, but he thought it not worth while advertising the fact.  Plainly this passenger of his was a queer bird, as queer within as in dress and appearance.  He turned his head slightly and looked him over.  It was growing too dark to see plainly, but one or two points were obvious.  For instance, the yellow leather suitcase was brand new and the overcoat was old.  It was shiny about the cuffs.  The derby hat—­and in October, in Wellmouth, derby hats are seldom worn—­the derby hat was new and of a peculiar shade of brown; it was a little too small for its wearer’s head and, even as Raish looked, a gust of wind lifted it and would have sent it whirling from the car had not Mr. Bangs saved it by a sudden grab.  Raish chuckled.

“Come pretty nigh losin’ somethin’ overboard that time, didn’t you?” he observed.

Mr. Bangs pulled the brown derby as far down upon his head as it would go.

“I—­I’m afraid I made a mistake in buying this hat,” he confided.  “I told the man I didn’t think it fitted me as it should, but he said that was because I wasn’t used to it.  I doubt if I ever become used to it.  And it really doesn’t fit any better to-day than it did yesterday.”