"I suppose not," Bob Wilson conceded in a surly tone. "Pour me one while you're about it."
"Okay," agreed the stranger, "then I'll explain."
"It had better be good," Wilson said ominously. Nevertheless he drank his drink and looked the stranger over.
He saw a chap about the same size as himself and much the same age-perhaps a little older, though a three-clay growth of beard may have accounted for that impression. The stranger had a black eye and a freshly cut and badly swollen upper lip. Wilson decided he did not like the chaps' face. Still, there was something familiar about the face; he felt that he should have recognized it, that he had seen it many times before under different circumstances.
"Who are you?" he asked suddenly.
"Me?" said his guest. "Don't you recognize me?"
"I'm not sure," admitted Wilson. "Have I ever seen you before?"
"Well―not exactly," the other temporized. "Skip it―you wouldn't know about it."
"What's your name?"
"My name? Uh. just call me Joe."