a stir of
excitement in the room; every one was curious to see this witness and
to hear his evidence.

The old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat,
leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the
examination to begin. He looked across the bar into the faces of the
people with the utmost calmness. He was perfectly at his ease. He knew
that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material
respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to
tell it effectually. It relieved him, also, of the necessity for that
constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts
as a witness in other cases.

The formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc.,
were answered with alacrity.

Then Sharpman, pointing to Ralph, asked the witness:--

"Do you know this boy?"

"I do," answered Craft, unhesitatingly.

"What is his name?"

"Ralph Burnham."

"When did you first see him?"

"On the night of May 13, 1859."

"Under what circumstances?"

This question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and
witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old Simon,
clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and
began.

He related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the
accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some
one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward. He
corroborated conductor Merrick's story of the meeting on the train
which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation
which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it.

He told of his attempts to find the child's friends during the few
days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which
he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night
of the accident. From that point, he went on with an account of his
continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to
the lad's identity, of his final success, of Ralph's unaccountable
disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat.

He said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an
extent, and his sympathy for the child's parents was such, that he
could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him.

He told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was
taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was t