“When I left this town thirty years ago, my name was Richard Ricker. On returning to those paths which my childish feet so often trod—I have just come from the West Indies where the climate is hotter than that stove—it seems appropriate that I should assume my family name. It is done. I am now Richard Ricker.”
Abner nudged Strout again, who resented it, but Mr. Stiles remarked in a whisper: “He's crazy—mad as a March hare.”
Mr. Ricker did not hear his opinion of his sanity.
“My father's name was Benjamin, Martha was my mother, and I had a brother William—that is, I had them all when I ran away to sea at the age of seventeen years, ten months, and fifteen days. I always remember my exact age for I wished to know just how long I had been gone when I got back.”
The villagers looked at the stranger with marked variations in expression, but no one spoke until Abner remarked:
“I guess you've struck the right place. There's a young feller named Billy Ricker that works for Mr. Strout here,” and he pointed to that gentleman. “Billy's father was named Bill, but he's dead; so's Ben and Marthy. I know'd 'em all.”
“I am glad to learn that I have a nephew in the land of the living. Where is he?”
“He lives in Montrose, the next town north of us,” said Mr. Strout. “We have a branch store there an' Billy has charge of it.”
“If he had some capital, I suppose he could become a partner,” remarked Mr. Ricker.
“Not much,” said Strout. “We have all the money we need, and know where to get more. What we want is men, an' we have a good one in Billy.”