He said, “Who are you? What do you want here?”
“Just a stranger after food and shelter,” I heard; “I’ve been wandering in the woods. I am a discharged soldier and I’m in hard luck.”
But I didn’t notice him, because I was looking at Brent Gaylong. He was standing up straight and looking steady, right across the fire, into that face. And he didn’t take his eyes off it; just stared.
CHAPTER XXXIII
WE PART COMPANY
Oh, it was great to watch Harry—the way he acted. He just said, “A soldier, eh? Sit down, we were just going to have a bite to eat. I was in the big scrap, myself.” That’s what he always called it—the big scrap. He didn’t pay any attention to Brent Gaylong, and Brent just stood there staring.
Pretty soon Brent said, “Your name isn’t Chandler, is it?”
“Maybe, and maybe not,” Jib Jab said. “Who are you?”
He didn’t admit he was Chandler right away and Harry Donnelle said, kind of careless sort of, “If you’re the missing Chandler you might as well so say. We’re all tramps and wanderers here. All broke, too.”
So pretty Soon Jib Jab, is he human? admitted that he was Horace E. Chandler, and Harry Donnelle said it was mighty lucky we had decided to stay over night in that neighborhood. He said he had always thought that the world was about as big as a cocoanut, but now he knew it was the size of a green pea. He said the trouble with it was there wasn’t enough elbow room, and scouts couldn’t get away into the woods and be alone, because on account of the crowds—crowds of missing people. Oh, he was great and, believe me, we liked that fellow.
None of those Church Mice even knew that Horace E. Chandler was Jib Jab who was in the circus. On the quiet, Jib told us that Mr. Costello didn’t mind his leaving like that, because what-is-its were easy to get, on account of so many of them being out of work—I mean people. But Jib said, Mr. Costello told him he was the best what-is-it he ever had, and he would give him a good recommendation, if he wanted it.