"I owe you an apology," he said. "I certainly never intended that
you should see me. I bought a ticket for New York and checked my
bag through. And then while I was waiting for the train it came
over me that your brother was right, and that it was a darned risky
thing for you to go jaunting about alone in Parnassus. I was afraid
something might happen. I followed along the road behind you,
keeping well out of sight."
"Where were you while I was at Pratt's?"
"Sitting not far down the road eating bread and cheese," he said.
"Also I wrote a poem, a thing I very rarely do."
"Well, I hope your ears burned," I said, "for those Pratts have
certainly raised you to the peerage."
He got more uncomfortable than ever.
"Well," he said, "I dare say it was all an error, but anyway I _did_
follow you. When you turned off into that lane, I kept pretty close
behind you. As it happens, I know this bit of country, and there are
very often some hoboes hanging around the old quarry up that lane.
They have a cave there where they go into winter quarters.
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