tones, and squeezing the white-faced little chap close to his heart.
“It’s all right, buddy,” he kept saying, with a comforting smile on his face, that was bound to stop the trembling sobs of the other, if anything could. “The ugly dog can’t hurt you, for he’s been killed, and can never bite anybody. You must have hurt your ankle, little brother; I’m going to carry you to where you live, so they can take care of you, and get the kind doctor to take the pain away. Put your arms around my neck, and I’ll be able to hold you better – that’s the way, kiddie; you know I’m a good friend of yours, don’t you?”
The crowd was all around them by this time, milling so as to get as close as possible – it reminded Jack of cattle being rounded up by expert punchers, so as to be shipped to market, or it might be, branded.
“Stand back, please, and give us air!” Jack called out, to add: “Perk, see that they don’t crowd in any further. I’m not going to be satisfied until I’ve seen this little lad safe in his home. Who knows where he lives?”
There were a dozen voices raised in explanations; but Jack lifted a hand to stop the confused racket.
“Hold up on that!” he told them, sharply; “I want just one person to tell me – here, you boy, you seem to know him okay – tell me his name, will you, and where he lives – nobody else break in now, get that? Go on, George, speak up!”
“My name’s Jimmy – his’n is Laddy Boy – he lives with his granny Mrs. Fergussan right ’round that next corner, in a little shack.”
“Fine for you Jimmy – lead us to it; and please everybody stop pushing – that shouting must be dropped, or you’ll have the old lady frightened half to death before we get there. Now start along, Jimmy – you’re a good pal to tie to, I’ll say.”
So they made a start, with scores following after them, all talking; but in more subdued tones. Possibly they realized that this young chap with the capable look, and firm voice, was one accustomed to having his orders obeyed without any questions being asked, and that he would brook no interference.
As they turned into the side street the young pilot hastened to point in the direction of a small old, but respectable looking cottage of some three rooms, that was surrounded by masses of flowers in full bloom.
Jack could see the door of the small house was wide open, and that an elderly woman stood there, shading her eyes with a hand, as she watched the approach of the crowd. Undoubtedly she must have heard what had been so loudly shouted, when the mad dog was causing such a panic on Main Street – she may even have started toward the nearby corner, with a great fear tugging at her heart, knowing her Laddie Boy was going about on the little errand she had entrusted to him; but if so fear had driven her back to the home, where she could slam the door shut in case personal peril threatened her.
Seeing Jack in the lead of the procession, carrying some object in his arms, she came flying down to meet him, looking aghast.
“Don’t be so alarmed Mrs. Ferguson,” Jack said, sympathizing with her new fears; “he wasn’t bitten by the dog; but had the bad luck to sprain his ankle. It’s nothing serious, I’m telling you straight – lead the way, and I’ll put him on a bed, when you can send for the doctor to look him over; but don’t worry – he’s safe enough, I promise you.”
Presently Jack joined his partner.
“Let’s go, matey,” Perk hastened to say, uneasily, as though he feared those admiring good folks outside were actually conspiring to pick him up on their shoulders, and march around town with the hero of the mad dog scare; something like that, but to which he was very must averse.
“Wait a few minutes,” Jack told his nervous comrade, “I promised the old lady I’d stay out here until the doctor had looked the child over; she wants to get the story out of us, I imagine, guessing something queer must have happened, from the way those folks kept pawing at us.”
Perk drew a long breath, and muttered something under his breath that sounded like “drat the tough luck;” but he did settle down on a chair, and amused himself looking around the room, on the walls of which were a number of cheap pictures, also several portraits.
“Come over here, Perk,” Jack was saying, as he stood in front of the picture of a man, “here’s a queer happening – look at that face – have you ever seen it before?”
CHAPTER III
Echoes of the Past
Looking rather surprised, as well as duly curious after his nature, Perk accordingly stepped blithely up, took one good stare, and immediately burst out with his characteristic and pet “swear-word” phrase:
“Hot-diggetty-dig! hard to b’lieve my eyes, for a fact, partner – course I seen that phiz afore neow, an’ same stirs up some mighty warm session we passed through a while back.”
“Then you say it’s a portrait of Slim Garrabrant?” asked Jack, in a lower key, and with a quick glance toward the connecting door that was a bit ajar it happened.
“None other, buddy – the slickest flim-flam artist that ever fooled the banks of every state west o’ the Mississip – fair good job that crayon artist made o’ his work – mebbe copied from a reg’lar photo. Ain’t this this the limit though – to think o’ runnin’ acrost his mug out here clost to San Diego. Huh! I allers heard the world seemed mighty small sometimes, an neow I b’lieves it.”
Jack put a finger up to his lips warningly.
“Softly, Perk. That old lady must be some close connection of Slim’s, I’d say; it may be his own mother – yes, the fact of finding his picture hanging on this wall in an honored place makes that plain; she evidently doesn’t know what a rogue her boy is – they must have kept things from reaching her ears after we gobbled him up, and he was sent to Leavenworth – or was it Atlanta?”
“Yeou got me there, ’cause I never did know,” observed Perk, taking yet another look at the face within the gold frame. “Aint sech a tough looker as we know he is, eh, ole pal?”
“Yes, that’s a fact; but then this was evidently taken years ago, most likely, before he became so hardened. I wonder – ”
“What neow, Jack?”
“That handsome little boy must be some relative of Slim’s,” said Jack, on a hazard; “if he was old enough I’d begin to believe the kid was his own child – they call her Grandmammy Ferguson, remember – yes, that would square things I’d reckon, Perk.”
“Aint it won-der-ful?” the other was saying, half to himself apparently; “jest to think o’ us arunnin’ smack into somebody connected with the man we was responsible for sendin’ to the pen years ago. ’Bout one chanct in a million sech a thing could happen; but it shore has.”
Jack also showed that he was feeling about the same as his comrade; indeed it was one of the queerest episodes he had ever met up with.
“If that turns out to be a fact,” he went on to comment, “I imagine Garrabarnt behind the bars would give considerable for a glimpse of that kid’s sweet face.”
“I wouldn’t blame him any at that, Jack. How ’bout the kid – dye kinder guess he’ll have a bad time with that leg?”
“The doctor will be able to say after he’s had a lookover,” came the confident answer. “My opinion
