“If you know him, why don’t you know what kind o’ looking fellow he is?” inquired Glennon logically.
“Because I never saw him, that is, I never had a good look at his face. The only time I ever saw him was in a London fog.”
“Then how do you know you know him?”
“I know his voice. He’s a fog pirate. He held up a friend and me a few weeks ago.”
“You don’t say! Did he get much?”
“Didn’t get anything. Another man happened along as he was making us empty our pockets and knocked his gun out of his hand.”
“Good! Did the fellow get away?”
“Yes; he bolted. But I remember his voice here. You’d remember it a hundred years, wouldn’t you? The boy who was held up with me called it a half-squeak, half-roar.”
“He hit it pretty good, if this is the fellow,” nodded Glennon. “What’re you going to do about it?”
“Oh, nothing. I’ve just got a curiosity to see what kind of looking guy he is. Let’s go back now and walk in just as if we were happening that way.”