"Bob Harding?"
"Yes, Bob Harding!"
"Do you mean to tell me that you're the Bob Harding who uster live on a farm near Buckfield, Maine?" asked Bishop, the anger dying from his voice.
"That's what I am!" declared the millionaire, as Bishop came toward him, a curious smile on his tanned face. "How are you, Jim?"
"Well; I'll be jiggered! How are you, Bob?" and they shook hands across the fence. For a moment neither spoke.
"It's thirty years or more since I've seen you," said Harding. "When did you move to this country?"
"Over twenty-five years ago," said Bishop. "And what have you been doing with yourself all these years? I surely hope you've found something better to do than play this here fool game an' knock people's heads off."
He tenderly rubbed the lump on his forehead.
"I just took this game up," said Harding rather sheepishly. "I've been building railroads."
"Are you Robert L. Harding, the railroad king that the papers talks so much erbout?" demanded Bishop.