“Mr. Norton!” I exclaimed as the man turned around.
He started as if shot, then straightened up, and looked at me coldly.
“My name is not Norton,” he replied in a low-pitched tone. “My name is Edwards.”
“Scarcely,” I returned. “You are Mr. Enos Norton.”
“That is a cool assertion, young man.”
“Rather cool, but nevertheless true,” I replied boldly; for his voice reassured me.
“Anybody would agree with me, I think, that a man ought to know his own name best,” he replied pompously.
“That is true, and you know your name is Norton.”
“Edwards, sir; Stephen Edwards from Newark.”
“Mighty queer the boy is so positive you are somebody else,” put in the conductor.