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“Young fellow,” he said, “you don’t seem to be in much of a hurry; perhaps you could take a note over to the Red Sign Bar.”

I explained that I was a stranger in the town, but he pointed out very definitely how I could find the way.

“You will go into the bar,” he said, “and go straight through to the back room. There you will find the tired man who fixed the dynamo. Give him this note.”

He handed me a blank envelope sealed, and half a dollar. I needed the half dollar, for I was hungry. I had not a cent in the world and I had walked that afternoon ten miles into the town.

It was not possible to mistake the directions. I followed the road the circus wagons had made from the meadow where the tents were stretched, to the town. One could not miss the main street through it.

Presently I found the Red Sign Bar. The bar was crowded, so my passage was not marked. I opened the door at the end and went into a room.

Immediately the man sitting at the table sprang up.

On the table before him were a number of railroad folders and a map, and he was making some calculations on a blank sheet of paper.