“Is that my name?”
“It was your father’s before you, and you’re coming out just like him. I reckon it’s that that fetches me now. Bar Vernon, if you make me one promise, I’ll be fair with you.”
“Now that I know my own name, I’ll promise anything,” excitedly exclaimed Barnaby.
“Well, then—quick now, listen, before I change my mind—you see that little black valise?”
“Seen it a thousand times,” said Bar.
“That’s yours, but you must promise not to open it for a year and a day. I’ll be either dead or a thousand miles from here then.”
“Most likely dead,” growled Bar, who evidently bore small affection to his big relative. “But I’ll promise. Will it tell me anything?”
“Everything; but, Barnaby, not for a year and a day! You always kept your word, just like your father.”
“I’ll keep it,” said Bar, firmly, “and now, good-bye, Major Montague, if that’s your name—only it isn’t. I can’t say I forgive you exactly, but we’ll part friends. No more acrobat and juggling and tight-rope and wonderful performances for me.”
“But what’ll you do? ’Twon’t be long before you’ll be hunting me up again.”