He worked on the clean ice before the shanty-boat and he was deep in his work when Buddy asked a question.
“Who is that man, Uncle Booge?” he asked.
Booge glanced up quickly. Across the ice, from the direction of the road a man was coming. He was well wrapped in overcoat and cap and he advanced steadily, without haste. Booge leaned on his ax and waited. When the man was quite near Booge said, “Hello!”
“Good afternoon,” said the stranger. “Are you Peter Lane?”
Booge's little eyes studied the stranger sharply. The man, for all the bulk given him by his ulster and cap, had a small, sharp face, and his eyes were shrewd and shifty.
“Mebby I am,” rumbled Booge, crossing his legs and putting one hand on his hip and one on his forehead, “and mebby I ain't. Let me recall! Now, if I was Peter Lane, what might you want of me?”
The stranger smiled ingratiatingly and cleared his throat.
“My—my name,” he said slowly, “is Briggles—Reverend Rasmer Briggles, of Derlingport. My duty here is, I may say, one that, if you are Peter Lane, should give you cause only for satisfaction. Extreme satisfaction. Yes!”
Booge was watching the Reverend Mr. Briggles closely.
“I bet that's so!” he said. “I sort of recall now that I am Peter Lane. And I don't know when I've had any extreme satisfaction. I'll be glad to have some.”