He proceeded to tell what he would tell ’em.  It was a favorite topic with him, especially in the summer and with visitors from the city.  Usually the discourse ended with a suggestion that if the listener should ever think of investing a little money in real estate “that’ll be wuth gold dollars to you—­yes, sir, gold dollars—­” he, Horatio G. Pulcifer, would be willing to point out and exhibit just the particular bit of real estate to invest in.  He did not reach the climax this time, however.  A gentle nasal sound at his shoulder caused Raish to turn his head.  Mr. Bangs had fallen asleep.  Awakened by a vigorous nudge, he apologized profusely.

“Really,” he declared, with much embarrassment, “I—­I am quite ashamed of myself.  I—­you see—­I have, as I say, been somewhat unwell of late, and the fatigue of walking—­I do hope you will excuse me.  I was very much interested in what you were saying.  What—­ah—­what was it?”

Before Raish could have repeated his real estate sermon, even had he so desired, the car came to the top of a hill, emerged from the clumps of pines shutting in the road on both sides, and began to descend a long slope.  And through the fog and blackness at the foot of the slope there shone dimly first one and then several lights.  Mr. Bangs leaned forward and peered around the edge of the wet windshield.

“Is that it?” he asked, in much the same tone that Mrs. Noah may have used when her husband announced that the lookout had sighted Ararat.

Raish Pulcifer nodded.  “Yes, sir,” he declared, proudly.  “Yes, sir, that’s East Wellmouth.”

The fog in the valley was thicker even than that upon the hill and East Wellmouth was almost invisible.  Mr. Bangs made out a few houses, a crossroads, a small store, and that was about all.  From off to the right a tremendous bellow sounded.  The fog seemed to quiver with it.

“What is that?” asked Mr. Bangs, nervously.  “I’ve heard it ever since I left the train, I believe.  Some sort of a—­ah—­steam whistle, isn’t it?”

“Foghorn over to the light,” replied Raish, briskly.  “Well, sir, here you be.”

The car rolled up to the side of the road and stopped.

“Here you be, Mr. Bangs,” repeated Mr. Pulcifer.  “Here’s where Hall lives, right here.”

Mr. Bangs seemed somewhat astonished.  “Right here?” he asked.  “Dear me, is it possible!”

“Possible as anything ever you knew in your life.  Why not?  Ain’t sorry, are you?”

“Oh, no—­no, indeed, I’m very glad.  I was—­ah—­a trifle surprised, that is all.  You said—­I think you spoke of Mr. Hall’s cottage as being—­ah—­off the track and so I—­well I scarcely expected to reach his house so easily.”

Raish had forgotten his “off the track” statement, which was purely a commercial fiction invented on the spur of the moment to justify the high price he was charging for transportation.  He was somewhat taken aback, but before he could think of a good excuse his companion spoke again.  He was leaning forward, peering out at the house before which the car had stopped.  It was a small, gray-shingled dwelling, sitting back from the road in the shadow of two ancient “silver-leafs,” and Mr. Bangs seemed to find its appearance surprising.