nor his father have
got the commercial knowledge they would need. Now"--The speaker
suddenly paused, and, as the two men sat close beside each other under
an umbrella in the stern of the skiff, looked into Mr. Tarbox's
pale-blue eyes, and smiled, and smiled.

"I'm here," said Mr. Tarbox.

"Yes," responded the other, "and I've just made out why! And you're
right, Tarbox; you and Claude, with or without his father, will make
a strong team. You've got no business to be canvassing books, you"--

"It's my line," said the canvasser, smiling fondly and pushing his hat
back,--it was wonderful how he kept that hat smooth,--"and I'm the
head of the line:

'A voice replied far up the height,
Excelsior!'

I was acquainted with Mr. Longfellow."

"Tarbox," persisted the engineer, driving away his own smile, "you
know what you are; you are a born contractor! You've found it out,
and"--smiling again--"that's why you're looking for Claude."

"Where is he?" asked Mr. Tarbox.

"Well, I told you the truth when I said I didn't know; but I haven't a
doubt he's in Vermilionville."

"Neither have I," said the book-agent; "and if I had, I wouldn't give
it room. If I knew he was in New Jersey, still I'd think he was in
Vermilionville, and go there looking for him. And wherefore? For
occult reasons." The two men looked at each other smilingly in the
eye, and the boat glided on.

The wind favored them. With only now and then the cordelle, and still
more rarely the oars, they moved all day across the lands and waters
that were once the fastnesses of the Baratarian pirates. The engineer
made his desired observations without appreciable delays, and at night
they slept under Achille's thatch of rushes.

As the two travellers stood alone for a moment next morning, the
engineer said:

"You seem to be making a study of my pot-hunter."

"It's my natural instinct," replied Mr. Tarbox. "The study of human
nature comes just as natural to me as it does to a new-born duck to
scratch the back of its head with its hind foot; just as natural--and
easier. The pot-hunter is a study; you're right."

"But he reciprocates," said the engineer; "he studies you."

The student of man held his smiling companion's gaze with his own,
thrust one hand into his bosom, and lifted the digit of the other:
"The eyes are called the windows of the soul,--

'And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.'

"Have