He tapped his head triumphantly, and, with a bleared, shining old eye, winked at the cook.
“My memory’s as good as ever it was,” he said complacently. “Sometimes I forget things, but they come back. My mother used to be the same, and she lived to ninety-three.”
“Lor!” interrupted the anxious cook. “What’s the name?”
The old man stopped. “Drat it!” he said, with a worried look, “I’ve lost it again; but it’ll come back.”
The cook waited ten minutes for the prodigal. “It ain’t Gething, I s’pose?” he said at length.
“No,” said the old man; “don’t you be in a hurry; it’ll come back.”
“When?” asked the cook rebelliously.
“It might be in five minutes’ time, and it might be in a month,” said the old man firmly, “but it’ll come back.”
He took the portrait from the hands of the now sulky cook and strove to jog his memory with it.
“John Dunn’s his name,” he cried suddenly. “John Dunn.”