"Well, I don't much wonder," continued his new-found friend. "If I have changed as much in fifteen years as you have, it isn't strange you didn't recognise me. Lord! I'd never have known you if you hadn't told me who you were."
"You must do me as great a favour," said Scarsdale, regaining a little of his self-composure. If so long a time had elapsed since their last meeting, he felt that things were not so bad after all, and that he could reasonably hope to bluff it out.
"Well," said the other, "the boys used to call me Faro Charlie; now you remember."
The Englishman tried to look as if he did, and the American proceeded to further elucidate matters by saying:
"Why, surely you ain't forgotten me as was your pal out to Red Dog, the time you was prospecting for copper and struck gold?"
"No, no," said Scarsdale. "Of course I remember you now." He couldn't be supposed to have forgotten such an event, he felt; but the whole affair was most unfortunate.
"I guess you've settled down and become pious, from the looks of you," continued Faro Charlie; "but you'll have a drink for old times' sake just the same."
"No, thanks, you must excuse me," he replied, feeling that he must drop this unwelcome friend as soon as possible. But the friend had no intention of being dropped, and contented himself by saying:
"Rats!" and ordering two whiskies.
"Why, I've known the day," he continued, "when Slippery Dick—we used to call you Slippery Dick, you remember, 'cause you could cheat worse at poker than any man in the camp." Scarsdale writhed. "Well, as I was saying, you'd have shot a man then who refused to drink with you."