Roscoe grew a shade paler, but he was firm and composed. He was determined to answer truthfully any question that was asked him, wherever it might lead.
“Nor in Samoa?”
There was the slightest pause, and then the reply came:
“Yes, in Samoa.”
“Not a missionary, by gracious! Not a mickonaree in Samoa?”
“No.” He said nothing further. He did not feel bound to incriminate himself.
“No? Well, you wasn’t a beachcomber, nor trader, I’ll swear. Was you there in the last half of the Seventies? That’s when I was there.”
“Yes.” The reply was quiet.
“By Jingo!” The man’s face was puzzled. He was about to speak again; but at that moment two river-drivers—boon companions, who had been hanging about the door—urged him to come to the tavern. This distracted him. He laughed, and said that he was coming, and then again, though with less persistency, questioned Roscoe.. “You don’t remember me, I suppose?”
“No, I never saw you, so far as I know, until yesterday.”