up. You look worse than a Kansas politician after a grasshopper plague.”
“No, Bobby, the whiskers stay. Shaggy hair, too. I’m going back, Bobby—back where I belong. And”—he brought his clenched fist heavily down upon his knee—“I’m going back tonight.”
“What’re you talking about? Going back where?”
Allison settled himself comfortably and lighted a cigarette.
“Well, Bobby, it’ll sound melodramatic, as I said before; but I’ll condense and cut the pathos. At the precocious age of six or thereabouts, the real Hathaway Allison was lost, strayed, or stolen. I believe there was quite a turmoil at the time. But possibly you’ve heard of the case—have you?”
“Of course. Mother’s told me a dozen times. Wasn’t there a mole, or a strawberry mark, or something or other—”
“There was a scar—a deep, bright red scar—in the shape of a ‘V’ on the right forearm. But to get on with the story. As you know, a frantic search was started; fabulous rewards offered; detectives the world over did their worst. All to no purpose. Several years passed and the topic was forgotten.
“Then suddenly there was a great flourish and a beating of tom-toms, and it was announced to the world that Hathaway Allison was found. Congratulations, poor relations, neighbors, and reporters swarmed in. The newspapers raved, the populace cheered, all was happiness. The poor kid was exhibited, kissed, hugged, and photographed in twenty different attitudes.”
The speaker paused abruptly, crossed to the window, stood looking out at turbulent Lake Michigan. After a minute or so he resumed his seat, and in a voice curiously altered, went on: “And the odd part of it all, Bobby, is that Hathaway Allison never was found. Never has been found, and, I am inclined to believe, never will be found.”
“Then how the—”
“The day of the hullaballoo there toddled into the kitchen of this house a poor, ragged youngster of nine or ten and asked for food. It seemed he was a sort of mascot of a gang of tramps, who sent him out to beg.
“The Allisons had been heart-broken since the loss of their child; little Hathaway and the embryo vagabond were not dissimilar in appearance; eyes and hair were almost alike. You may guess the rest.”
He cleared his throat, shrugged his shoulders, and ended briefly: “Well, I was the kid, that’s all.”
Bobby’s harsh laugh broke the ensuing silence.
“Well, Well! Why all this emotion? You’re not the only adopted son in Chicago. The town’s full of’em.”
“Yes, I know; but—oh, I’m tired of all this”—he gestured round the luxurious room. “I know it sounds eccentric, but I’m tired of it, all the same—wealth and all that goes with it. I guess it’s in the blood.
“Along about this time of the spring I usually get the ‘call.’ Heretofore I’ve always turned a deaf ear. But this time I’m going to answer. They’re in Europe now. And I’m going away tonight.”
Bobby snorted derisively and picked up his hat and gloves.
“Now, Hathaway, forget all this rubbish and put on your things and come with me to a barbershop. Afterward we’ll have dinner together. My car’s outside, you know. Come on.”
But Hathaway smiled and shook his head.
“No use, my boy. I’m through.”
“Bosh! You’re not a second Count Tolstoy, I hope. Are you coming?”
“No.”
“Very well. Goodnight.”
“I guess it’s good-by, Bobby.”
“See you at the club tomorrow,” called Bobby from the hall. “Good night.”
When his guest had gone, Allison went to his room, closed the door, and took from the wardrobe a suitcase, which he opened upon the bed. It contained a pair of rusty shoes, rustier trousers, frayed waistcoat and threadbare coat, and a sooty cap much too large.
With racing heart and trembling fingers, he stripped to his undergarments and donned the base attire. Afterward he knotted a faded bandana round his neck, pulled the cap low upon his brow, and surveyed himself in the mirror.
Though obviously pleased with the effect, he stuffed the cap in a pocket, donned a derby, and cloaked his rags in a long overcoat before leaving the house, thus occasioning no undue curiosity among the servants.
Several blocks away he disappeared down a dark alley.
When some while later a dusty and seedy-looking tramp carrying a large newspaper bundle walked along the Rush Street bridge, the sharpest pair of eyes among Hathaway Allison’s acquaintances would have given him scarcely more than a passing glance.
In the center of the bridge he stopped, glanced quickly round, and stealthily consigned his burden to the black water below. Then he made for State Street, and was swallowed up in the bustling, scrambling, six-o’clock crowds.
Presently, like a rambling derelict, he drifted out of the rushing stream into the harbor of a large doorway.
A sudden impulse had come over him. He would put his disguise to the test.
Affecting a woebegone attitude, he eyed furtively from beneath the weathered visor of his cap a well-dressed man of about his own age who stood a few feet away drawing on his gloves.
At length he slouched over to the prosperous-looking one, laid a pleading hand on his broadclothed arm, and muttered a supplication for alms.
CHAPTER III
The diners had reached the coffee-cigars-conversational stage of dinner, and chatty discourse was meet.
At his benefactor’s request, the shabby one held forth at length on the life of the road. He poured forth in a jargon wondrous to hear. He considered it the vernacular of trampdom.
He enthused over vagabondage; he painted it in glowing colors; he indulged in remarkable superlatives; and when at last he had finished he was amazed at his power of imagination.
So amazed, indeed, that he failed to notice that his listener was staring at him rather curiously, as though puzzled about something.
“Your story,” he said, resting his elbow on the table and turning his cigar thoughtfully between his fingers, “is pretty interesting—in a way. But don’t you think it sounds a little fishy? Your language, now—it’s just a little too funny to be natural.”
He leaned suddenly across the table and looked his guest squarely in the eye.
“How long have you been a ’bo?” he asked sharply. “Who are you, anyhow?”
Young Allison turned pale beneath his ragged beard. It was a critical moment. Happily, the waiter saved it by arriving with the dinner-check. The bill amounted to nine dollars and forty cents. As the host handed the servitor a crumpled ten-dollar bill and waved him away, the guest
