“Hullo, young fellow!” he said chuckling. “I bet you never seen anything like me before; now did you? It worries you some, don't it?” Benson drew back with a muttered apology. “No offence!” cried the man good-naturedly. “You're welcome to guess my breed, but you'll never hit it. I'm a sailor.” “So I imagined,” said Benson. “Hold on, not so fast!” interposed the man quickly. “That's only part of it; I'm an uncommon kind of sailor; I reckon the only sailor Styles Cross Roads way up beyond Marietta ever turned out, or ever will. None of your lake or river lunk-heads, but a true sea-faring man, Ohio born and Ohio bred, and from Styles Cross Roads, which it's a combination that's hard to beat.” “It must be,” and Benson smiled indulgently. “The other gentleman knowed me the minute he clapped eyes on me. He flirted me a look that told me that plain as words.” But the third occupant of the coach was not to be drawn into the conversation. He neither smiled nor spoke, nor showed that he heard what was said. “Kick him in the shins,” advised the sea-faring man from Styles Cross Roads in a hoarse whisper. “Maybe he's hard of hearing.” Benson shook his head in dissuasion of such a course; however, the sailor appeared to abandon the idea with so much reluctance, that the lawyer said pleasantly, wishing to change the current of his thought: “So you're from Styles Cross Roads?” “Have you ever heard of the place before?” demanded the sailor. “I think I have,” said Benson, not quite truthfully.