Egbert had not ceased to shout, nor had he paid the least attention to
my tugs at his coat. When the cab's occupant descended to the pavement
they fell upon each other and did for some moments a wild dance such
as I imagine they might have seen the red Indians of western America
perform. Most savagely they punched each other, calling out in the
meantime: "Well, old horse!" and "Who'd ever expected to see you here,
darn your old skin!" (Their actual phrases, be it remembered.)

The crowd, I was glad to note, fell rapidly away, many of them
shrugging their shoulders in a way the French have, and even the
waiters about us quickly lost interest in the pair, as if they were
hardened to the sight of Americans greeting one another. The two were
still saying: "Well! well!" rather breathlessly, but had become a bit
more coherent.

"Jeff Tuttle, you--dashed--old long-horn!" exclaimed Cousin Egbert.

"Good old Sour-dough!" exploded the other. "Ain't this just like old
home week!"

"I thought mebbe you wouldn't know me with all my beadwork and my new
war-bonnet on," continued Cousin Egbert.

"Know you, why, you knock-kneed old Siwash, I could pick out your hide
in a tanyard!"

"Well, well, well!" replied Cousin Egbert.

"Well, well, well!" said the other, and again they dealt each other
smart blows.