He had been thus settled for some time, when he heard his name
pronounced by the man occupying the next chair.
"Bob Orde!" he cried; "but this is luck!"
Bob looked around to see an elderly, gray-haired, slender man, of keen,
intelligent face, pure white hair and moustache, in whom he recognized
Mr. Frank Taylor, a lifelong friend of his father's and one of the best
lawyers his native state had produced. He sprang to his feet to grasp
the older man's hand. The unexpected meeting was especially grateful,
for Bob had been long enough without direct reminders of his old home to
be hungry for them. Ever since he could remember, the erect, military
form of Frank Taylor had been one of the landmarks of memory, like the
sword that had belonged to Georgie Cathcart's father, or like the
kindly, homely, gray figure of Mr. Kincaid in his rickety, two-wheeled
cart--the man who had given Bob his first firearm.
After first greetings and inquiries, the two men sank back to finish
their smoke together.
"It's good to see you again," observed Bob, "but I'm sorry your business
brings you out here at this time of year.
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