Now, this evening, he'd try to get on the track of
Morton. Well, perhaps not this evening--the Pennsylvania
offices wouldn't be open, but some time this week, anyway.
Two nights later, as he waited for Tom Poppins at Miggleton's,
he lashed himself with the thought that he had not started to
find Morton; good old Morton of the cattle-boat. But that was
forgotten in the wonder of Tom Poppins's account of Mrs. Arty's,
a boarding-house "where all the folks likes each other."
"You've never fed at a boarding-house, eh?" said Tom. "Well, I
guess most of 'em are pretty poor feed. And pretty sad bunch.
But Mrs. Arty's is about as near like home as most of us poor
bachelors ever gets. Nice crowd there. If Mrs. Arty--Mrs. R.
T. Ferrard is her name, but we always call her Mrs. Arty--if she
don't take to you she don't mind letting you know she won't take
you in at all; but if she does she'll worry over the holes in your
socks as if they was her husband's. All the bunch there drop into
the parlor when they come in, pretty near any time clear up till
twelve-thirty, and talk and laugh and rush the growler and play
Five Hundred.
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