So I waited in patience.
"Crocker," said he, at length, "there's a man here from Boston, Charles
Wrexell Allen; came this morning. You know Boston. Have you ever heard
of him?"
"Allen," I repeated, reflecting; "no Charles Wrexell."
"It is Charles Wrexell, I think," said Farrar, as though the matter were
trivial. "However, we can go into the register and make sure."
"What about him?" I asked, not feeling inclined to stir.
The Celebrity
"Oh, nothing. An arrival is rather an occurrence, though. You can hear
him down there now," he added, tossing his head towards the other end of
the porch, "with the women around him."
In fact, I did catch the deeper sound of a man's voice among the lighter
tones, and the voice had a ring to it which was not wholly unfamiliar,
although I could not place it.
I threw Farrar a bait.
"He must make friends easily," I said.
"With the women?--yes," he replied, so scathingly that I was forced to
laugh in spite of myself.
"Let us go in and look at the register," I suggested. "You may have his
name wrong."
We went in accordingly. Sure enough, in bold, heavy characters, was the
name Charles Wrexell Allen written out in full. That handwriting was one
in a thousand. I made sure I had seen it before, and yet I did not know
it; and the more I puzzled over it the more confused I became. I turned
to Farrar.
"I have had a poor cigar passed off on me and deceive me for a while.
That is precisely the case here.
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