Mr. Atkins smiled a bland, congressional smile. He approached the group by the fence and extended his hand.
“Ah, Asaph!” he said; “it is you then? I thought so. And Bailey, too. It is certainly delightful to see you both again. Yes, my daughter is well, I thank you. She, like her father, is glad to be back in the old home nest after the round of hotel life and gayety which we have—er—recently undergone. Yes.”
“Mr. Atkins,” said Bailey, glancing nervously at Captain Cy, who had stopped whistling and was regarding the Atkins hat and whiskers with an interested air, “I want to make you acquainted with your new neighbor. You used to know him when you was a boy, but—but—er—Mr. Atkins, this is Captain Cyrus Whittaker. Cy, this is Congressman Atkins. You've heard us speak of him.”
The great man started.
“Is it possible!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible that this is really my old playmate Cyrus Whittaker?”
“Yup,” replied the captain calmly. “How are you, Heman? Fatter'n you used to be, ain't you? Washin'ton must agree with you.”
Bailey and Asaph were scandalized. Mr. Atkins himself seemed a trifle taken aback. Comments on his personal appearance were not usual in Bayport. But he rallied bravely.
“Well, well!” he cried. “Cyrus, I am delighted to welcome you back among us. I should scarcely have known you. You are older—yes, much older.”
“Well, forty year more or less, added to what you started with, is apt to make a feller some older. Don't need any Normal School graduate to do that sum for us. I'm within seven or eight year of bein' as old as you are, Heman, and that's too antique to be sold for veal.”
Mr. Atkins changed the subject.