Kenyon smiled.
“There was a time, Gypsy, when you prided yourself upon your memory. It must have gone back on you of late years, if you don’t recognize old friends.”
“Old friends!” The man glowered at the speaker. “I haven’t got any old friends. No man that is down and out has. When me coin run out, it was the side street and the far-away look for mine.”
Kenyon drew a stool toward him and sat down, first throwing his top-coat and crush-hat aside. The man regarded his immaculateness with frowning wonder.
“How long has it been, Brady,” inquired the caller, “since you saw my old acquaintance the ‘Steamhammer’?”
Brady stared for a moment, then a grin gradually stole over his face.
“Say,” said he. “I’ve got you now. You are that young guy from West Point.” He arose and shook hands with Kenyon. “I’m glad to see you. You were once the handy boy, all right,” admiringly. “You had a shot in either hand that would have made you champion of America if you had been in that line.”
“Thanks.”
“Just wait a minute,” continued the Gypsy, with a wink. “I’ve got a friend here that’s sort of backward-like, when people call.” He went to a closet at one side, pulled back the catch and threw open the door.
“All right, Slim,” said he. “You can come out. It’s a friend of mine.”