“Sam told me that at them words he just leaned back in his seat and stared at the jay and whistled under his breath. Years ago, it seemed, Sam had lived in the town of Readsboro, Vermont, and run up and down the streets with one suspender and a stone bruise, and the kid that had run with him was Mark Dennen. And Sam says he looked at this guy from the woods that was running round crying to high heaven he needed a guardian, and he sees that sure enough it was the tow-head Mark Dennen and — Sam told me — something seemed to bust inside him, and he wanted to stretch out his arms and hug this guy.
“ ‘Mark Dennen,’ shouts Sam, ‘as I live. Of Readsboro, Vermont. The kid I used to play with under the arc lights — don’t you remember me?’
“But Sam says the guy just looked him straight in the eye and shut his jaw, and says: ‘I suppose you’ll be asking after my brother George next?’
“ ‘You ain’t got any brother George, you idiot,’ laughs Sam. He told me he was thinking how he’d treat his old friend Mark to a dinner that would go down in history in Readsboro. ‘Mark, you old rascal,’ he says, ‘don’t you remember me — don’t you remember little Sam Burns that used to play andy-over with you, and that stole your girl in 1892? Don’t you remember the old days in Readsboro?’ He was all het up by this time, Sam tells me, and all the old memories came creeping back, and he kept thinking he never was so glad to run across anybody in his life. ‘You remember little Sam Burns, don’t you?’ he asks once more.
“But this guy just looks back into Sam’s eye with his own cold as steel, and he says, says he: ‘You’re pretty clever, mister, but you don’t fool me. No, you don’t come any games on Mark Dennen.’
“ ‘But, Mark,’ says Sam, ‘I swear to you by all that’s holy that I’m that kid — I’m Sam Burns. What proof do you want? Do you remember old Ed Haywood that used to keep the drug store right across from the post-office? The guy that never washed his windows? I do. And Miss Hunter that taught the sixth grade school when we went there — a little woman with washed-out gray eyes and a broken front tooth? And that pretty little girl, Sarah somebody — wait a minute, I’ll get it or bust — Sarah — Sarah — Sarah Scott, you used to be so sweet on? Did you marry her, Mark? And old Lafe Perkins, who used to be on hand whenever there was any repairs being made anywhere — rheumatism and a cane and a high squeaky voice that he used to exercise giving orders about things that wasn’t any of his business. Why, Mark, I remember ’em all. Good lord, man,’ says Sam, ‘do you want any more proof?’
“But this country blockhead just looked Sam up and down, and remarks judicious: ‘It’s certainly wonderful how you know all these things. Wonderful. But you can’t fool me,’ he says, ‘you can’t fool Mark Dennen.’ ”
Mr. Max paused in his narrative for a moment. The sound of voices came up from the office of Baldpate Inn. One, that of the mayor, boomed loudly and angrily. In an evident desire to drown it, Mr. Max went on with spirit:
“Well, gentlemen, it got to be a point of honor, as you might say, for Sam to convince that guy. He told me he never wanted anything so much in his life as for Mark Dennen to give in. It was a hot afternoon, and he’d come aboard that boat for a rest, but he peeled off his collar and started in. He gave Mark Dennen the number of bricks in the Methodist Church, as reported in the Readsboro Citizen at the time it was built. He told him the name of the piece Mark’s sister recited at the school entertainment in the spring of 1890. He bounded on all four sides the lot where the circuses played when they came to Readsboro. He named every citizen of the town, living or dead, that ever got to be known outside his own family, and he brought children into the world and married them and read the funeral service over them, and still that bonehead from the woods sat there, his mouth open, and says: ‘It’s beyond me how you know all that. You New Yorkers are slicker then I give ye credit for. But you can’t fool me. You ain’t Sam Burns. Why, I went to school with him.’
“They was drawing near Coney now,” went on Mr. Max, “and Sam’s face was purple and he was dripping with perspiration, and rattling off Readsboro happenings at the rate of ten a second, but that Mark Dennen he sat there and wouldn’t budge from his high horse. So they came up to the pier, Sam almost weeping real tears and pleading like his heart would break: ‘Mark, don’t you remember that time we threw little Bill Barnaby into the swimming hole, and he couldn’t swim a stroke and nearly drowned on us?’ and still getting the stony face from his old pal.
“And on the pier this Dennen held out his hand to Sam, who was a physical wreck and a broken man by this time, and says: ‘You sure are cute, mister. I’ll have great times telling this in Readsboro. Once you met one too smart for ye, eh? Much obliged for your company, anyhow!’ And he went away and left Sam leaning against the railing, with no faith in human nature no more. ‘I hope somebody got to him,’ says Sam to me, ‘and got to him good. He’s the kind that if you work right you can sell stock in a company for starting roof gardens on the tops of the pyramids in Egypt. I’d trimmed him myself,’ says Sam to me, ‘but I hadn’t the heart.’ ”
Mr. Max finished, and again from below came the sound of voices raised in anger.
“An interesting story, Mr. Max,” commented Professor Bolton. “I shall treasure it.”
“Told with a remarkable feeling for detail,” added Mr. Magee. “In fact, it seems to me that only one of the two participants in it could remember all the fine points so well. Mr. Max, you don’t exactly look like Mark Dennen to me, therefore — if you will pardon the liberty—”
“I get you,” replied Max sadly. “The same old story. Suspicion — suspicion everywhere. It does a lot of harm, believe me. I wouldn’t—”
He jumped from his chair and disappeared, for the voice of Cargan had hailed him from below. Mr. Magee and the professor with one accord followed. Hiding in the friendly shadows of the landing once again, they heard the loud tones of the mayor’s booming voice, and the softer tones of Bland’s.
“How about this?” bellowed the mayor. “Hayden’s squealed. Phones to Bland — not to me. Whines about the courts — I don’t know what rot. He’s squealed. He didn’t phone the combination.”
“The rat!” screamed Mr. Max.
“By the Lord Harry,” said the mayor, “I’ll have it open, anyhow. I’ve earned what’s in there, fair and — I’ve earned it. I’m going to have it, Max.”
“See here, Cargan—” put in Mr. Bland.
“Keep out of the way, you,” cried Cargan. “And put away that pop-gun before you get hurt. I’m going to have what’s mine by justice. That safe comes open to-night. Max, get your satchel.”
Mr. Magee and the professor turned and ascended to the second floor. In front of number seven they paused and looked into each other’s eyes. Professor Bolton shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m going to bed,” he said, “and I advise you to do the same.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Magee, but had no idea what he had said. As for the old man’s advice, he had no intention of taking it. Melodrama — the thing he had come to Baldpate Inn to forget forever — raged through that home of solitude. Men spoke of guns, and swore, and threatened. What was it all about? And what part could he play in it all?
He entered number seven, and paused in amazement. Outside one of his windows Miss Norton stood, rapping on the glass for him to open. When he stood facing her at last, the window no longer between, he saw that her face was very pale and that her chin trembled as it had in the station.