Mr. Hamlin quickly followed him, unperceived, and,
as he stepped into the street, gently tapped him on the shoulder. The
boy turned and faced him quickly. But Mr. Hamlin's eyes showed nothing
but lazy good-humor.
"Hullo, Bob. Where are you going?"
The boy again looked up suspiciously at this revelation of his name.
"Home," he said, briefly.
"Oh, over yonder," said Hamlin, calmly. "I don't mind walking with you
as far as the lane."
He saw the boy's eyes glance furtively towards an alley that ran beside
the blacksmith's shop a few rods ahead, and was convinced that he
intended to evade him there. Slipping his arm carelessly in the youth's,
he concluded to open fire at once.
"Bob," he said, with irresistible gravity, "I did not know when I met
you this morning that I had the honor of addressing a poet--none other
than the famous author of 'Underbrush.'"
The boy started back, and endeavored to withdraw his arm, but Mr. Hamlin
tightened his hold, without, however, changing his careless expression.
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