“How old was he?” The Northerner had the air about him of being determined to make sure.
“About fifty, I judge—maybe fifty-two or three.”
“And didn't they use to call him Al for short?”
“Yes; nearly everybody did—Mr. Al Perkins.”
“That's the party,” agreed the other. “Al Perkins! I knew him well. Strange, now, that I can't think where it was I met him—I move round so much in my business, being on the road as a travelling man, it's hard keeping track of people; but I know we spent a week or two together somewhere or other. Speaking of names, mine is Caruthers—John P. Caruthers. Sorry I haven't got a card with me—I ran out of cards yesterday.”
“Mine,” said our townsman, “is Emanuel Moon.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Moon,” said Mr. Caruthers as he sought Emanuel's right hand and shook it heartily.
“Very glad indeed. You don't meet many people of your name—Oh, by Jove, that's another funny thing!”
“What?” said Emanuel.
“Why,” said Mr. Caruthers, “I used to have a pal—a good friend—with your name; Robert Moon it was. He lived in Detroit, Michigan. Fine fellow, Bob was. I wonder could old Bob Moon have been your cousin?”