Agitated, with tremulous voice and shaking hands, he grasped Adam, almost embracing him, his gray old face alight with gladness.
“It’s good to see you, Merryvale—to learn you’ve not forgotten me—all these years.”
“Lad, you was like my own!... But who’d ever know you now? You’ve white hair, Adam, an’—ah! I see the desert in your face.”
“Old friend, did you ever hear of Wansfell?”
“Wansfell? You mean thet wanderer the prospectors tell about?... Shore, I’ve been hearin’ tales of him these many years.”
“I am Wansfell,” replied Adam.
“So help me God!... Wansfell?... You, Adam, the kindly lad!... Didn’t I tell you what a hell of a man you’d be when you grew up?”
Adam drew Merryvale aside from the curiously gathering loungers.
“Old friend, you are responsible for Wansfell.... And now, before we tell—before I go—I want you to take me to—to—my—my brother’s grave?”
Merryvale stared.