He was aroused from his investigations by the whistle of the hoisting-engine. It was six o’clock. He put on his coat and walked toward the road, and as he went workmen nodded and smiled to him. “The old man’s son,” he heard as he passed. “Nelson says he’s hell on wheels,” was another scrap of comment; but the one that pleased him most, because it was unexpected, because it would have pleased most his father, was spoken from the opposite side of the fence out of his view: “I heard him talkin’ to Nelson. He’ll make things hum.” “Who will?” asked another voice, apparently joining the group. “Why, Sudden Jim—Clothespin Jimmy’s boy.” Jim walked back to the hotel with a new buoyancy in his heart; his first half-day had been good. It had introduced him to himself—and it had won him a name. CHAPTER III Supper at the Diversity House surprised Jim Ashe so much that it almost ruined his appetite. He had expected the food to match the general efficiency of the place, and had vaguely figured on the possibility of dining on crackers and cheese. This teaches us that, whereas man judges from the outward appearance, he should wait till he sees what comes out of the kitchen. It was the sort of meal you might expect to eat in a prosperous farm-house—plentiful, well cooked, and topped by apple pie that made Jim wish he had started with dessert, continued with dessert, and ended up with a final helping of it. There are few things in this world more delightful than a splendid meal that takes you by surprise. He went out to sit on the porch, cool now with the evening breeze off Lake Michigan. Sitting with his back against a post, and looking as if he had not shifted his position since Jim saw him early in the afternoon, was the gentleman of the white socks and calico shirt. He did not look up as Jim passed to take a chair at the end of the piazza. Presently there drew up before the hotel a ramshackle buggy drawn by an animal that was undoubtedly still a horse. It was a very Methuselah among horses. The old man who rode in the buggy appeared comparatively youthful beside it. Jim smiled at the turnout, then frowned a trifle, for the old man was the same individual who had rebuffed him so bruskly at the depot. “Hey!” called the old gentleman, without straightening himself from the amazing position in which he sat. “Hey, Dolf—Dolf Springer!” “Eh?” the gentleman in the white socks grunted, sitting erect and gazing about him owlishly. “Was you at the depot to see the six-o’clock come in, Dolf? Eh?” “Calc’lated to be.” “Anybody git off, Dolf? Anybody special?” “Lafe Jenks and his wife, Mandy Williams, Tom Sweet, two travelin’-men—” “Anybody special, Dolf? Eh?” “Well, last to git down was Michael Moran, Judge.” “Um! What become of him, Dolf? Happen to notice?” “In there eatin’ his supper.” “Calc’late to be here long, Dolf?” “Quite a spell, Judge.” “Calc’late to be here till Moran comes out?” “I could.”