"I was standing at the door of the church when you were baptized,"
returned the visitor, "and as you were an interesting baby, I have kept an
eye on you ever since. Of course I knew that you discarded Hiram as soon
as you got old enough to put away childish things, and since the failure
of your uncle I have been aware that you desired to be known as Spencer
Carrington, but to me you are, always have been, and always will be,
Hiram."
"Well, don't give it away," I pleaded. "I hope to be famous some day, and
if the American newspaper paragrapher ever got hold of the fact that once
in my life I was Hiram, I'd have to Hiram to let me alone."
"That's a bad joke, Hiram," said the visitor, "and for that reason I like
it, though I don't laugh. There is no danger of your becoming famous if
you stick to humor of that sort."
"Well, I'd like to know," I put in, my anger returning--"I'd like to know
who in Brindisi you are, what in Cairo you want, and what in the name of
the seventeen hinges of the gates of Singapore you are doing here at this
time of night?"
"When you were a baby, Hiram, you had blue eyes," said my visitor.
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