So a glass of milk was brought, and Mr. Parkins was made happy. "I suppose you don't smoke, then?" said Allen, amused.
"You bet--a pipe." He produced a short clay and filled it. "I'm of the opinion of that old chap in Westward Ho., if you know the book?"
"I haven't read it for years."
"Y'ought to. I read it every year, same as I do my Bible. Had I my way, sir," he emphasised with his pipe, "I'd give every English boy a copy of that glorious book to show him what a man should be."
"You're English, I believe, Mr. Parkins?"
"Born, but not bred so. Fact is, my mother and father didn't go well in double harness, so mother stopped at home with Mark, and I lighted out Westward-ho with father. You'd never take me for Mark's brother?"
"I should think not. You're a big man and he's small: you talk with a Yankee accent, and he speaks pure English. He's----"
"Different to me in every way. That's a fact. I'm a naturalised citizen of the U.S.A. and Mark's a Britisher. We've met only once, twice, and again, Mr. Hill, but get on very well. There's only two of us alive of the Parkins gang, so I guess we'd best be friendly, till we marry and rear the next generation. I'm going to hitch up with an English girl, and Mark--if I can persuade him--will marry an American dollar heiress. Yes, sir, we'll square accounts with the motherland that way."
All the time Parkins talked, he pulled at his pipe, and enveloped himself in a cloud of smoke. But his keen blue eyes were constantly on Allen's face, and finally he stretched out a huge hand. "I guess I've taken to you, some," said he, "catch on, and we'll be friends."
"Oh," said Allen, grasping the hand, "I'm sure we shall. I like Mark."