But before the countryman could take a step, a dark-featured man, dressed in a checked suit, with a Brazilian sunstone in a gaudy scarf, and a strong odor of the Tenderloin about him, stepped up and, grasping the farmer by the hand, exclaimed: “Why, how do you do, Silas Hockins? When did you come to town?” “Waal, naow, yeou seem tew know me, mister, but I’m gosh-darned ef I kin place yeou fur a cent,” answered Farmer Hockins, in a puzzled way. “Why, I was down in your neighborhood all last summer. Avalanch, New Jersey, is where you live, isn’t it?” “Waal, naow, I expect yeou’re right there, mister; but I don’t recollect yeou, just the same.” “My name is Bond--Steve Bond.” Silas Hockins shook his head, while Jack Hazard, who stood a few feet away, sized the other stranger up for a confidence man. He was certain of it a moment later when the farmer said: “Seems yeou’re the second one thet’s stopped me sence I landed from the ferryboat. The other chap thought he knowed me, too; but when he found out my name was Silas Hockins and thet I lived in Avalanch, New Jersey, why, he ’pologized and went off. He thought I was Josh Whitcomb, from Newark. Haw, haw, haw!” “You mustn’t mind that, Hockins,” said the man, with a crafty smile. “We New Yorkers are mighty glad to meet our friends from the country, and we always do the right thing by ’em.” “Waal, naow, yeou don’t say!” “Say,” put in Jack at this point, “I’m waiting for you. You want to find Nassau Street, don’t you?” “Never mind, young man; you can run along. I’ll take charge of Mr. Hockins and show him all that’s to be seen.” The New Jerseyman seemed undecided what to do, seeing which, Jack decided to block the sharper’s game. “Look here,” he said, in a low voice; “I’m dead on to you. There’s a cop across the street. If you don’t take a glide, I’ll run over and give him the tip-off.” The sharper saw that his game was up. “I sha’n’t forget you, young man, if I ever come across you again,” he said, angrily, as he turned and walked away without another word to the countryman. “I reckon he don’t know me arter all,” remarked Mr. Hockins, taking a fresh hold on his carpetbag as the man from the Tenderloin faded around the corner of the Post Office. “Still, he seemed to hev my name and whar I cum from right pat.” “He didn’t know you at all. That fellow was a confidence man.” And as Silas Hockins followed across the street into Ann Street, the boy explained the old threadbare game to him. “Waal, naow, yeou’re right smart, I reckon, to see through thet chap at once. I s’pose yeou drink, don’t yeou? A glass of cider would kinder hit me in the right place,” and Hockins paused in front of a saloon. “I’ll wait for you, if you don’t linger too long,” answered Jack. “Ain’t yeou comin’ in?” The boy shook his head. “Waal, I won’t be more’n a minit.” Jack glanced over a cheap lot of books on a vendor’s cart drawn up alongside the narrow walk until Silas Hockins reappeared.