In compensation for his prudence in regard to the Dryfooses he now indulged an impulse.

He stepped across to where the old man sat, with his bald head shining like ivory under the gas-jet, and his fine patriarchal length of bearded mask taking picturesque lights and shadows, and put out his hand to him.
"Lindau! Isn't this Mr.Lindau ?" The old man lifted himself slowly to his feet with mechanical politeness, and cautiously took March's hand.

"Yes, my name is Lindau," he said, slowly, while he scanned March's face.

Then he broke into a long cry.

"Ah-h-h-h-h, my dear poy! my gong friendt! my-my--Idt is Passil Marge, not zo?
Ah, ha, ha, ha! How gladt I am to zee you! Why, I am gladt! And you rememberdt me?
You remember Schiller, and Goethe, and Uhland?
And Indianapolis?
You still lif in Indianapolis?
It sheers my hardt to zee you.