Well, seeing Charlie Rivers unshaved and in an overcoat which, like magic, seemed to transfer him from the woods to city streets, I recognized with a shock the same man who had tried to get into conversation with me in Bridgeboro so long ago. The revelation struck me between the eyes. So striking and memorable is the appearance of one when clad in unwonted raiment. Charlie Rivers was a man of the woods; in an overcoat he stood apart. “Good night, Charlie,” I said.
As soon as they had gone, I exclaimed, “Tom, Charlie Rivers is the same man whom we saw while we were sitting on the porch in Bridgeboro; he is the same man who spoke to me later in the street and asked about a job up here.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked.
“I know it,” I said. “All that was needed was to see him unshaved and in an overcoat. Don’t ask me, I know he’s the same man.”
“I can’t imagine what he was doing down there,” Tom said.
“All I know is what he said,” I answered. “He wanted to know if the property here had changed hands and spoke of a job—that’s all I know.”
Tom just sat on the edge of the table whistling. “That’s blamed funny,” he commented.
“Are we going to do the dishes to-night?” Brent asked.
“Do you think it would be all right to speak to him about it?” I asked.
“Why not?” Tom said.