Uncle William studied the thin face and looked over the thin legs. “No, I hain’t ever seen ye,” he said. “And yet the’ ’s suthin’ about ye,”—the man uncrossed his legs,—“suthin’ that keeps kind o’ pullin’ on me.” Uncle William rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. “You ever seen me?” he demanded.
The man’s eyes laughed. “Hundreds of times.”
“You hev?” Uncle William sat up. “Where?”
“Right here.”
“In this house?”
“Well, around here,” said the man, “on these rocks and near by. I lived here once. I dote on these rocks—every one.” He waved a hand at the landscape.
Uncle William fixed him with stern eye. “You hain’t ever lived here,” he said slowly. “You don’t mean to lie.” His gaze grew kindlier. “You’re jest romancin’.” He brought it out with unction.
The Frenchman stared. Then he laughed out. “Well done! I can’t fight you for that.” He leaned forward. “Who lived this side of Gunnion’s when you were a boy?” he asked.
Uncle William paused. He looked again at the face with its lifted eyebrows and pointed beard. He shook his head. A light grew in his face slowly—he started forward. “Not Bodet?” he said eagerly. “Not little Benjy Bodet?” He stared again.
The man laughed musically. “Right.” He stood up, holding out his hand. “I thought you would know me.”