“I can’t say that I do,” was my reply. “I think you have made a mistake in the fly-rod.”
“No, I haven’t,” said he, confidently. “I knew you before you left Mr. Brown’s store. Don’t you remember the English fowling-piece that had the dispute with that conceited bamboo?”
So this was my old acquaintance, the “Brummagem shooting-iron,” was it? It was right on the point of my tongue to remind him that the bamboo had not showed himself to be any more conceited than he was; but I didn’t say it. I judged by his appearance that he had seen pretty hard times since he left Mr. Brown’s protecting care. He had sneeringly told me that I was not worth the modest price that had been set upon me, but, here I was, as bright as ever, while he looked as though he had been through half a dozen wars.
“I remember you now,” said I, “but you have changed so much that I did not recognize you at first. Where have you been, and what have you done since that countryman of yours ordered you to be sent up to the Lambert House?”
“He was no countryman of mine,” replied the double barrel, sadly. “He was a full-fledged Yankee who tried to pass himself off for something better than he really was. But he’s got all over that; the guides laughed him out of it.”
“Did they laugh you into your present condition?” I asked, remembering that the double barrel had also tried to pass himself off for something better than he really was.
“Eh? No,” he replied, indignantly. “It’s the result of abuse and hardship. Last year I was stolen out of camp—”
“By whom?” I interrupted, excitedly.
“By a vagabond who calls himself Matt Coyle,” was the reply. “His old shanty leaked like a sieve, and I got wet and rusty. That’s what makes me look so bad.”
“How did your master get you back?”