"You 've made a mistake!" "I 'm blimed if I 'ave!" bellowed a tornado-like voice.

"Blime! You look just like 'im!" "But you 're mistaken, old man!" Fairchild was vaguely aware that the spray-like mustache was working like a dust-broom, that snappy blue eyes were beaming upon him, that the big red nose was growing redder, while a tremendous paw had seized his own hand and was doing its best to crush it.
"Blimed if I 'ave!" came again.

"You're your Dad's own boy! You look just like 'im! Don't you know me ?" He stepped back then and stood grinning, his long, heavily muscled arms hanging low at his sides, his mustache trying vainly to stick out in more directions than ever.

Fairchild rubbed a hand across his eyes.
"You 've got me!" came at last.

"I--" "You don't know me?
'Onest now, don't you?
I 'm Arry! Don't you know now?
'Arry from Cornwall!".