“No, the--ah--the South Wellmouth station. You see, I got off the train at South Wellmouth by mistake. It was the first Wellmouth called, you know, and I--I suppose I caught the name and--ah--rushed out of the car. I thought--it seemed to be a--a sort of lonely spot, you know--” “Haw, haw! South Wellmouth depot? It's worse'n lonesome, it's God-forsaken.” “Yes--yes, it looked so. I should scarcely conceive of the Almighty's wishing to remain there long.” “Eh?” “Oh, it's not material. Pardon me. I inquired of the young man in charge of the--ah--station.” “Nelse Howard? Yes, sure.” “You know him, then?” Mr. Pulcifer laughed. “Say,” he observed, patronizingly, “there's mighty few folks in this neighborhood I don't know. You bet that's right!” “The young man--the station man--was very kind and obliging, very kind indeed. He informed me that there was no direct conveyance from the South Wellmouth station to Wellmouth--ah--Centre, but he prevailed upon the driver of the station--ah--vehicle--” “Eh? You mean Lem Lovett's express team?” “I believe the driver's name was Lovett--yes. He prevailed upon him to take me in his wagon as far as a crossroads where I was to be left. From there I was to follow another road--ah--on foot, you know--until I reached a second crossroad which would, he said, bring me directly into Wellmouth Middle--ah--Centre, I should say. He told me that Mr. Hall lived there.” “Well, he told you wrong. Hall lives up to East Wellmouth. But what I can't get a-hold of is how you come to fetch up way off here. The Centre's three mile or more astern of us; I've just come from there.” “Oh, dear me! I must have lost my way. I was quite sure of it. It seemed to me I had been walking a very long time.” Mr. Pulcifer laughed. “Haw, haw!” he guffawed, “I should say you had! I tell you what you done, Mister; you walked right past that crossroad Nelse told you to turn in at. THAT would have fetched you to the Centre. Instead of doin' it you kept on as you was goin' and here you be 'way out in the fag-end of nothin'. The Centre's three mile astern and East Wellmouth's about two and a ha'f ahead. Haw, haw! that's a good one, ain't it!” His companion's laugh was not enthusiastic. It was as near a groan as a laugh could well be. He put the yellow suitcase down in the mud and looked wearily up and down the fog-draped road. There was little of it to be seen, but that little was not promising. “Dear me!” he exclaimed. “Dear me!” And then added, under his breath: “Oh, dear!” Mr. Pulcifer regarded him intently. A new idea was beginning to dawn beneath the plaid cap. “Say, Mister,” he said, suddenly, “you're in a bad scrape, ain't you?” “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?”