“But you identify him?”
“If he says he’s Samuel Marlowe,” assented Mr. Bennett grudgingly, “I suppose he is. I can’t imagine anybody saying he was Samuel Marlowe if he didn’t know it could be proved against him.”
“Are you my nephew Samuel?” said Mrs. Hignett.
“Yes,” said Sam.
“Well, what are you doing in my house?”
“It’s my house,” said Mr. Bennett, “for the summer, Henry Mortimer’s and mine. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
“Dead right,” said Mr. Mortimer.
“There!” said Mr. Bennett. “You hear? And when Henry Mortimer says a thing, it’s so. There’s nobody’s word I’d take before Henry Mortimer’s.”
“When Rufus Bennett makes an assertion,” said Mr. Mortimer, highly flattered by these kind words, “you can bank on it. Rufus Bennett’s word is his bond. Rufus Bennett is a white man!”
The two old friends, reconciled once more, clasped hands with a good deal of feeling.