“I was.”
“Charles?”
“Yes, that is the name.”
“I am—”
I pulled out my note of introduction, and banded it to the gentleman, who glanced over its contents.
“My dear friend,” said he, grasping me cordially, “very sorry I have not been here. I came down the river this morning. How stupid of Walton not to superscribe to Bill Bent! How long have you been up?”
“Three days. I arrived on the 10th.”
“You are lost. Come, let me make you acquainted. Here, Bent! Bill! Jerry!”
And the next moment I had shaken hands with one and all of the traders, of which fraternity I found that my new friend, Saint Vrain, was a member.
“First gong that?” asked one, as the loud scream of a gong came through the gallery.