"Oh, I know it's for you, sir,"
said he. "They told me at the little tavern--the Holly something--that
I'd find you here. You're the gentleman that had a bicycle tire eat
up by a bear, ain't you?"
I admitted that I was, and still, without opening the letter, I asked
him, where it came from.
"That was given to me in New York, sir," said he, "by a Dago, one of
these I-talians. He gave me the money to go to Blackburn Station in
the cars, and then I walked over to the tavern. He said he thought I'd
find you there, sir. He told me just what sort of a lookin' man you
was, sir, and that letter is for you, and no mistake. He didn't know
your name, or he'd put it on."
"Oh, it is from the owner of the bear," said I.
"Yes, sir," said the man, "that's him. He did own a bear--he told
me--that eat up your tire."
I now tore open the blank envelope, and found it contained a letter on
a single sheet, and in this was a folded paper, very dirty. The letter
was apparently written in Italian, and had no signature.
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