He bellowed, while he belabored Martin’s back: "Well, well, well, well, well, well! Old Mart! Why, you old son of a gun! Why, you old son of a gun! Why, you damn’ old chickenthief! Say you skinny little runt, I’m a son of a gun if you look one day older’n when I saw you last in Zenith!" Martin was aware of the bright leering of the once humble reception-clerk.