“You—you are—”
“Sam Munson, of course. Don’t you remember me?”
“Judge Munson’s son?”
“Certainly—but it’s been ten years since we’ve met. I’m surely glad to see you. How are you, anyhow?”
“I’m right well,” said the stampeded one, “and how are you?”
“Well, I haven’t been very well, but the sight of you is a cure for sore eyes. They’ve locked me up on suspicion, and you’ve just come in the nick of time. They wanted some one to let them know that I was really Sam Munson. How long has it been since you’ve been in the old town?”
“Two years,” said Brock, watching the other man intently.
“Well, it’s been ten since I was there, and I’ll bet they’ve had some big changes in that time.”
“Rather!”
“By the way,” continued Baker, trying to prevent the other from having time to think, “you remember the Bradleys, don’t you? Well, I heard not long ago that Sue Bradley had married—married some fellow from Chattanooga. She was a mighty fine girl was Sue, and the fellow that got her got a prize.”