It was the advertisement of a clothing
house, and on the back was written "P. B. Neale, 108 Chestnut Street."
The mules walked the half dozen blocks back to the lumber yard, while
my mind reviewed this conversation. There was a bit of mystery to it
which had fascination, because of a vague promise of adventure.
Evidently this man Neale had need of a stranger to help him out in some
scheme, and had picked me by chance as being the right party. Well, if
the pay was good, and the purpose not criminal, I had no objections to
the spice of danger. Indeed, that was what I loved in life, my heart
throbbing eagerly in anticipation. I was young, full-blooded, strong,
willing enough to take desperate chances for sufficient reward. There
was a suspicion in my mind that all was not straight--Neale's
questions, and the private signals to be given at a side door left that
impression--yet I could only wait and learn, and besides, my conscience
was not overly delicate. I had lived among a rough, reckless set, had
experienced enough of the seamy side of life to be somewhat careless.
I would take the chance, at least, in hope of escape from this routine.
All the rest of the day, for this meeting had occurred early in the
afternoon, I labored quietly, loading and unloading lumber, my muscles
aching from a species of toil to which I had not yet become accustomed,
my mind active in imagination over the possibilities of this new
employment.
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