“Yes,” said he, “you have seen me before, often, I should think. Do you mean to say you don’t know where?”
“Nope,” said Jones—he had acquired a few American idioms—“I’m clear out of my reckoning—are you an American?”
“No, I’m English,” replied the other. “This is very curious, you don’t recognise me, well—well—well—let’s sit down and have a talk, maybe recollection will come to you—give it time—it is easier to think sitting down than standing up.”
Now as Jones turned to take his seat at the table indicated by the stranger, he noticed that the bar keeper and his assistant were looking at him as though he had suddenly become an object of more than ordinary interest.
The subtlety of human facial expression stands unchallenged, and the faces of these persons conveyed the impression to Jones that the interest he had suddenly evoked in their minds had in it a link with the humorous.
When he looked again, however, having taken his seat, they were both washing glasses with the solemnity of undertakers.
“I thought those guys were laughing at me,” said Jones, “seems I was wrong, and all the better for them—well, now, let’s get to the bottom of this tangle—who are you, anyway?”
“Just a friend,” replied the other, “I’ll tell you my name presently, only I want you to think it out for yourself. Talk about yourself and then, maybe, you’ll arrive at it. Who are you?”
“Me,” cried Jones, “I’m Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I’m the partner of a skunk by name of Stringer. I’m the victim of a British government that doesn’t know the difference between tin plate and Harveyised steel. I’m a man on the rocks.”
The flood gates of his wrath were opened and everything came out, including the fact of his own desperate position.