"It means a good deal to me," he answered. "What is your name?"
"I've got several," said I, "'Tide-water Clam,' 'The Swell,' 'Gentleman Frank' …"
"Oh, chuck all that," said he, "and don't be so confounded bitter. Can't you guess that I'm here to try to get you out of this scrape?"
I stared at him for a moment without speaking. I'd thought that he'd come out of curiosity, and maybe to rub it in a little.
"Why do you want to get me out of it?" I asked. "I'm a burglar and I've got what was coming to me … what's coming to any other burglar. Let it go at that."
He studied me for a second, then asked:
"Why didn't you shoot at me, last night. You started to, then stopped."
"I'm not a gun man," I answered.
"It wasn't that," said he. "You knew who I was."
"I didn't until I saw your face," I answered. "Then I couldn't help but guess. The girl shoved the gun into my hand."
"I saw that," said he. "Do you know my name?"
"I suppose you are John Cuttynge," I answered.
"Yes," said he, "I'm John. What's your name, old chap?"
"Frank Clamart is what they called me," I muttered. "Old Tante Fi-Fi came from Clamart and named me after her birthplace. Why?"
"Brothers ought to know each other's names," said John.
