and scrub he might do it for white
folks at least; for I am a down-east Yankee, and I haven't any too
much respect for those fellows. Well, I brought him to New Orleans. I
couldn't do much for him, being a poor man myself, but I got him a
place in a restaurant, where he could get enough to eat, anyhow. I've
since heard that he used to be a newspaper man, but this was disputed.
Some people said that the newspaper DeGolyer was a black-haired
fellow. But that didn't make any difference--I did the best I could."

"And you shall he more than paid for your trouble," said DeGolyer.

"Well, we won't argue about that. If you've got any money to spare
you'd better give it to him."

"What is your name?"

"Atkins--just Cap'n Atkins."

"Where do you get your mail?"

"Well, I don't get any to speak of. A letter sent in care of the
wharfmaster will reach me all right."

DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant.
Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen,
sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him.

"Come, Henry," DeGolyer said, taking his arm.

"No; not Henry--Hank. Henry's dead."

"Come, my boy."

Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his
fingers against them.

"My boy."

"He got up and turned to go with DeGolyer, who held his arm, but
perceiving that he had left his bundle, pulled back and made an effort
to reach it.

"No, we don't want that," said DeGolyer.

"Yes, clothes."

"No, we'll get better clothes. Come on."

DeGolyer took him to a Turkish bath, to a barbershop, and then to a
clothing store. It was now evening and nearly time to take the train
for Chicago. They drove to the hotel and then to the railway station.

The homeward journey was begun, and the wheels kept on repeating: "A
father and a mother and a sister, too." DeGolyer did not permit
himself to think. His mind had a thousand quickenings, but he killed
them. Young Witherspoon looked in awe at the luxury of the
sleeping-car; he gazed at the floor as if he wondered how it could be
scrubbed. At first he refused to sit on the showy plush, and even
after DeGolyer's soothing and affectionate words had relieved his fear
of giving offense, he jumped to his feet when the porter came through
the car, and in a trembling fright begged his companion to protect
him against the anger of the head waiter.

"Sit down, my dear boy. He is not a head waiter--he is your