He looked hard at the stranger, but, although the features were somewhat familiar, he could not really recognize the man.
“Don’t know me, Batterby? Impossible! Don’t know Tony Miller!”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Ephraim; “Tony Miller! so it is! Tony Miller! Not Tony Miller? Why—why—why, Miller, I thought you died thirty years ago!”
“Died! ha, ha! Not a bit of it, man. Why, it’s absurd! I saw you only two or three weeks since!”
“Strange, strange!” said Ephraim, almost sadly, in his mind trying to recall some fragments of the past. “I could have sworn that you were dead!”
“No, sir; just as hearty and lively as I ever was. By the way, Mr. Batterby, what has become of Ephraim? I don’t see him about any more.”
“Ephraim? Ephraim Batterby? Why, who do you think I am?”
“Joshua Batterby, of course; who else? You don’t seem very well to-day, I think.”
“He mistakes me for my father,” said Ephraim to himself. “When will all this wild, puzzling mystery end?” Then, addressing Miller, he said, “I would like to have some conversation with you, Miller; I am strangely confused and upset to-day.”
“Certainly; be glad to have a chat with you. I say, suppose you come home and dine with me? I am on my way to dinner now. Will you go?”