Griswold was sufficiently human to roll the long-submerged courtesy prefix as a sweet morsel under his tongue. With a day to spare he might have clinched the clerk's respect by taking a suite; the more luxurious, the better. But St. Louis, with at least two men in it who would sweep the corners in their search for him, was only a place to put behind him. So he said: "Neither; if I have time to get my supper and catch a train. Have you a railway guide?" "There is one in the writing-room. But possibly I can tell you what you wish to know. Which way are you going?" Without stopping to think of the critical happenings which had intervened since the forming of the impulsive resolution fixing his destination, Griswold named the chosen field for the hazard of fresh fortunes, and its direction. "North; to a town in Minnesota called Wahaska. Do you happen to know the place?" "I know it very well, indeed; southern Minnesota is my old stamping-ground. Are you acquainted in Wahaska?--but I know you are not, or you wouldn't pronounce it 'Wayhaska'." "You are quite right; I know next to nothing about the town. But I have been given the impression that it is a quiet little place out of the beaten track, where a man might spend a summer without having to share it with a lot of other city runaways of his kind." The clerk smiled and shook his head. "You might have done that a few years ago, but there's a fine lake, you know, and some New Orleans people have built a resort house. I understand it does a pretty fair business in the season." Having assured himself that the New Orleans leaf in his book of experience was safely turned and securely pasted down, Griswold was nettled to find that the mere mention of the name sent creeping little chills of apprehension trickling up and down his spine. But innate stubbornness scoffed at the warning; derided and craved further details. "How large a place is it?" "Oh, four or five thousand, I should say; possibly more: big enough and busy enough so that a hundred-room resort house doesn't make it a souvenir town. It's a nice little city; modern, progressive, and business-like; trolleys, electric lights, and some manufacturing. Good people, too. _Front!_ Check the gentleman's grips and show him the cafe. I'm sorry we can't give you dinner, but the dining-room closes at nine." "Plenty of time, is there?" Griswold asked. "Oh, yes; didn't I tell you? Your train leaves the Terminal at eleven-thirty; but you can get into the sleeper any time after eight o'clock." The guest had crossed the lobby to the cafe, and the clerk was still dallying with the memories stirred up by the mention of his boyhood home, when a little man with weak eyes and a face that out-caricatured all the caricatures of the Irish, sidled up to the registry desk. The round-bodied clerk knew him and spoke in terms of accommodation. "What is it, Patsy?" "The young gentleman ye was spakin' to: is he gone?"