The Squire had started at the sound of the stranger’s voice. Then he shoved his hands deep into his trousers pockets and stared hard at the man, his brows knotting slowly, as though he were endeavouring to recall something.
“I don’t know who you be, nor where you come from, nor I don’t care,” snapped Amazeen; “but I want to say to you, mister, that you’d better call the leadin’ man in P’lermo by a different name, ’specially when he’s standin’ here in hearin’!” He shook an indignant cane at the man and swung and pointed it at Phineas.
At this instant a raucous voice squalled a long, loud “Yah-h-h!” A cage was hung to one of the figures of the big waggon, whose seats showed a former use as a band chariot. A ragged, gray parrot was in the cage. He clutched a bar in his warty claws, rapped his bill violently and yelled:
“Crack ’em down, gents! It’s the old army game!”
The Squire took a quick step forward, halted and stared again.
“Twenty can play as well as one!” the parrot squawked. The stranger began to clamber down from the seat and stood revealed as a tall man when he stood upright. The knots smoothed out of the Squire’s brow.
The two men walked slowly toward one another, each with hand outstretched, and they met half way. Hand clutched hand in a grip that made the cords ridge the skin. They gazed for a long time with moistening eyes.
“Hime!” choked out the Squire.
“You poor little cuss, Phin,” the other gulped, as he reached his arm over the Squire’s shoulder and patted his back.
There was rough affection in the gesture, but there was constraint in the stranger’s mien. He displayed the nervous bravado of one who is ashamed and feels that the shame is a weakness.