"Did'st ever meet a man called Tubal Ammon?"
John Coram tapped his steel-cap, shook his head, and answered:
"Never heard that name; but say, what be he like?"
"A tall, thin, bony fellow; legs like broomsticks; face like parchment; eyes like slits; and short-cropped hair that grows straight up like grass. Moreover, he----"
"Stop!" broke in Coram, who had been following me with wondering eyes and gaping mouth. "What did you call him?"
"Tubal Ammon."
"Ah, then, it cannot be the same, and yet 'tis very like the man I met five years agone. His name was Israel Stark. 'Twas said that he had been a preacher of the Word, though when I knew him he was more a breaker of it, though, to be sure, he had some store of Latin ever ready on his tongue. Yet, for all that, he was the swiftest runner that I ever came across. Moreover, he could climb a tree like any squirrel. Aye, right well I mind me how I once did see him go clean up a----"
"Stay," I put in eagerly, "'tis the same man sure enough, in spite of names."
"What! hast thou met him too, then, friend?" asked Coram.
"Yes, I have met him too," I answered grimly.