Neither of us could call such a person to mind.
“Well, it’s all right, I suppose,” he went on in a tone implying injury forgiven, “but you mustn’t let Bill know you’ve forgotten him. The Trescotts used to live over by the Whitney schoolhouse in Greenwood Township,—right on the Pleasant Valley line, you know. He remembers you folks, Al. I’ll drive over that way.”
There were beds of petunias and four-o’clocks to be seen dimly glimmering in the dusk, as we drove through the broad gate. Men and women were gathered in a group about the base of the windmill, as Jim’s loud “whoa” announced our arrival. The women melted away in the direction of the house. The men stood at gaze.
“Hello, Bill!” shouted Jim. “Come out here!”
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Mr. Elkins,” said a deep voice. “I didn’t know yeh.”
“Thought it was the sheriff with a summons, eh? Well, I guess hardly!” said Jim. “Mr. Trescott, I want you to shake hands with our old friend Mr. Barslow.”
A heavy figure detached itself from the group, and, as it approached, developed indistinctly the features of a brawny farmer, with a short, heavy, dark beard.
“Wal, I declare, I’m glad to see yeh!” said he, as he grasped my hand. “I’d a’most forgot yeh, till Mr. Elkins told me you remembered my whalin’ them Dutch boys at a scale onct.”
I had had no recollection of him; yet form and voice seemed vaguely familiar. I assured him that my memory for names and faces was excellent. After being duly presented to Mrs. Barslow, he urged us to alight and come in. We offered as an excuse the lateness of the hour.
“Why, you hain’t seen my family yet, Mr. Barslow,” said he. “They’ll be disappointed if yeh don’t come in.”