"John Lordick."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed my black-whiskered friend. "Are you REALLY John Lordick, the brother of James? Good Lord! Who would have thought it!"
Thus strongly appealed to, I felt unable to reply except by an affirmative nod.
"So you are John Lordick? I heard you were dead. How the world is given to lying! I should never have known you. You have changed amazingly since I left Saba six years ago, John."
As this remark did not necessarily require any reply, I made none. I now began to suspect that I was mistaken in the estimate of the character of my interrogator that he was neither the captain of a band of pirates nor the leader of a press-gang; and it being my first essay at carrying out a system of falsehood, I was terribly frightened at the dilemma in which I was involved. I lost my presence of mind, and instead of frankly avowing the truth, as policy, as well as principle, would have dictated, I came to the conclusion to stick by my story, and carry out the deception to the end of the chapter. But my mortification, my confusion, my chagrin, at being subjected to this unforeseen cross-examination, can hardly be conceived. I envied the condition of the wretch standing by the gallows with a noose around his neck. After a brief pause, my tormentor continued "Do you recollect me?"
"No," said I, promptly; and glad of a chance to speak a little truth, I added, "To the best of my knowledge, I never saw you before in my life."
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" My friend seemed greatly amused. "Can it be that I have changed so much within a few short years? You knew me well enough once, John, when I lived opposite your father's house. I am Lewis Brown." And in a friendly, but somewhat patronizing manner, he held out his hand.
"Indeed," said I, grasping his proffered hand, "Lewis Brown! I never should have recognized you."
"Yes," said Brown, "six years WILL make a change in one's appearance. I should never have recognized you as John Lordick. How is your sister, Bertha, and all the rest of the folks?"
"Well, quite well."