“I don’t quite comprehend the meaning of the reason,” said Philo Gubb.
“Why, you see,” said the Bald Impostor glibly,—“you see—if you introduced me to him—why—why, he’d know me.”
“He’d know you?” said Philo Gubb.
“He’d know me,” repeated the false Mr. Burns. “I’ll tell you why. The Bald Impostor did call on him.”
“Honest?”
“I was there,” said the Bald Impostor. “The Judge gave him twenty dollars and a copy of some book or other he had written, and he wrote his autograph in the book. Remember that. The Judge wrote his autograph in a book—and gave it to the fellow. I’m telling you this so you can tell the Judge. Tell him I told you. Tell him the fellow’s mother is much better now. Tell him Judge Bassio Bates’s toe is quite well. And then ask him for the twenty dollars he owes you. You’ll get it.”
“And you was there?” asked Philo Gubb, amazed.
“Out of sight, but there,” said the false Mr. Burns glibly. “Just ready to put my hand on the fellow—but I couldn’t. I hadn’t the heart to do it. I thought of the ridicule it would bring down on the poor old Judge. You know he’s an uncle of mine. I’m his nephew.”
“He said,” said Philo Gubb hesitatingly, “he’d never heard of you.”