surprise was filled up.

"My gracious! how thick the houses are!" exclaimed he, much to the
amusement of the kind-hearted butcher.

"We have high fences here," he replied.

"Where are all these folks going to?"

"You will have to ask them, if you want to know."

But the wonder soon abated, and Bobby began to think of his great
mission in the city. He got tired of gazing and wondering, and even
began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they sauntered
along, and the gayly dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle
butterflies, on the sidewalk. It was an exciting scene; but it did not
look real to him. It was more like Herr Grunderslung's exhibition of
the magic lantern, than anything substantial. The men and women were
like so many puppets. They did not seem to be doing anything, or to
be walking for any purpose.

He got out of the butcher's cart at the Old South. His first
impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of the
puppets. He did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and for
several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the spot.

"All right!" exclaimed he to himself at last. "I am here. Now's my
time to make a strike. Now or never."

He pulled Mr. Bayard's card from his pocket, and fixed the number of
his store in his mind. Now, numbers were not a Riverdale institution,
and Bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one indicated. A
little study into the matter, however, set him right, and he soon had
the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller's name over his store.

"F. Bayard," he read; "this is the place."

"Country!" shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the street
at that moment.

"Just so, my beauty!" said Bobby, a little nettled at this imputation
of verdancy.

"What a greeny!" shouted the little vagabond from the other side of
the street.

"No matter, rag-tag! We'll settle that matter some other time."

But Bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which
subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop, he
determined to correct it as soon as possible.

A spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a
mischievous glance at him as he entered.

"Mr. Bayard keep here?" asked Bobby.

"Well, I reckon he does. How are all the folks up country?" replied
the spruce clerk, with a rude grin.

"How are they?" repeated Bobby, the color flying to his cheek.

"Yes, ha-ow do they dew?"

"They b