“Who be I?” he demanded at last.
The stranger surveyed him for a long time, his head drooping lower and lower, until it was hugged between his shoulders.
“You,” he huskily ventured, “so I should jedge, though I ain’t seen you for a good many years, you—I should say—you——”
“Well, up and out with it!”
“You are Look’s Leviathan Circus and Menagerie, H. Look, Proprietor.”
“You win a cigar,” assented Hiram, with a snap of his head. “And as for you, you’re Sime Peak, billed as Mounseer Hercules, and I’m glad you called when you came along.”
There was a grim significance under his words that made the stranger flinch.
“Let’s see!” pursued Hiram, his eyes narrowing, “it’s quite a while to remember back, but didn’t you throw up your job with me kind o’ sudden?”
The man on the van scratched a trembling forefinger through a cheek tuft.
“I don’t exactly recollect how the—how the change came about,” he faltered.