“H’ware ye, stranger?  Sure glad to see you.”

The other accepted the proffered hand automatically, like one moving in a dream.

“Are you Drew?”

“Sure am.”

“William Drew?”

He still held the hand as if he were fearful of the vision escaping without that sensible bondage.

“William Drew is right.  Sit down.  Make yourself to home.”

“Thanks!” breathed the other and as if that breath expelled with it all his strength he slumped into a chair and sat with a fascinated eye glued to his host.

Lawlor had time to mark now the signs of long and severe travelling which the other bore, streaks of mud that disfigured him from heel to shoulder; and his face was somewhat drawn like a man who has gone to work fasting.

“William Drew!” he repeated, more to himself than to Lawlor, and the latter formed a silent prayer of gratitude that he was not William Drew.

“I’m forgetting myself,” went on the tenderfoot, with a ghost of a smile.  “My name is Bard—­Anthony Bard.”

His glance narrowed again, and this time Lawlor, remembering his part, pretended to start with surprise.

“Bard?”

“Yes.  Anthony Bard.”

“Glad to know you.  You ain’t by any chance related to a John Bard?”

“Why?”

“Had a partner once by that name.  Good old John Bard!”

He shook his head, as though overcome by recollections.

“I’ve heard something about you and your partner, Mr. Drew.”

“Yes?”

“In fact, it seems to be a rather unusual story.”

“Well, it ain’t common.  John Bard!  I’ll tell the world there was a man.”

“Yes, he was.”

“What’s that?”

“He must have been,” answered Anthony, “from all that I’ve heard of him.  I’m interested in what I scrape together about him.  You see, he carries the same name.”

“That’s nacheral.  How long since you ate?”

“Last night.”

“The hell!  Starved?”

“Rather.”

“It’s near chow-time.  Will you eat now or wait for the reg’lar spread?”

“I think I can wait, thank you.”

“A little drink right now to help you along, eh?” He strode over and opened the door.  “Hey!  Shorty!”

For answer there came only the wail of an old pirate song.

    “Oh, my name’s Sam’l Hall—­Sam’l Hall;
     My name’s Sam’l Hall—­Sam’l Hall. 
     My name is Sam’l Hall,
     And I hate you one an’ all,
     You’re a gang of muckers all—­
       Damn your eyes!”

“Listen!” said Lawlor, turning to his guest with a deprecating wave of the hand.  “A cook what sings!  Which in the old days I wouldn’t have had a bum like that around my place, but there ain’t no choosin’ now.”

The voice from the kitchen rolled out louder: