"Wouldn't it be strange now," he remarked between bites, "if Carl Potzfeldt and pretty Bessie Gleason should drop in here while we were eating?"
"I hardly think that is likely to happen," Tom replied. "Still, I can't seem to get it out of my mind that that man at the corner table, who keeps his face hidden behind his newspaper has a familiar look. Adolph Tuessig is, we believe, in London, and he has to eat just the same as we do."
"Suppose we hurry along then with our meal, Tom, and when that fellow starts to pass out we can manage in some way to jostle him, so as to get a look at his face. Of course we couldn't have him arrested, or anything like that; but I'd like to know from curiosity if nothing else, whether he was aboard our steamer."
"Agreed," Tom replied, hurrying his eating, while he kept one eye on the table in the corner where the man under suspicion sat, his face concealed behind a copy of an evening paper.
"I wonder whether we'll keep on running across that Tuessig when we get over there in France," continued Jack, as though the idea disturbed him somewhat.
"Nothing would please me better," his chum told him between his set teeth. "Because in
