"That boy w'ats a-talkin' to Jimmy Dooley, you mean?"

"Yes, the one there by the lion's cage."

"You mean that boy there with the blue patch on his pants?"

"Yes, yes! the one with his hand bandaged; don't you see?"

"Oh, that's Ralph."

"Ralph who?"

"Ralph n.o.body. He ain't got no other name. He lives with Bachelor Billy."

"Is--is Bachelor Billy his father?"

"Naw; he ain't got no father."

"Does he work with you in the mines?"

"In the mines? naw; we don't work in the mines; we work in the screen-room up t' the breaker, a-pickin' slate. He sets nex' to me."

"How long has he been working there?"

"Oh, I donno; couple o' years, I guess. You want to see 'im? I'll go call 'im."

"No; I don't care to see him. Don't call him; he isn't the boy I'm looking for, any way."

"There! he's a-turnin' this way now. I'll have 'im here in a minute; hey, Ralph! Ralph! here he comes."

But the old man was gone. He had disappeared suddenly and mysteriously. A little later he was trudging slowly along the dusty road, through the crowds of people, up toward the city. He was smiling, and muttering to himself. "Found him at last!" he exclaimed, in a whisper, "found him at last! It'll be all right now; only be cautious, Simon! be cautious!"

CHAPTER II.

A STRANGE VISITOR.

It was the day after the circus. Robert Burnham sat in his office on Lackawanna Avenue, busy with his afternoon mail. As he laid the last letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy, dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for the joys to come. The pleasure he had found in his generous deed stayed with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even now in the light of his kindly face.

He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph. It had awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. He had spoken to his wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and whose name was--Ralph! Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the screen-room.

But he had already resolved to do this, and more. The mystery surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. Obscure and humble though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to which his parentage ent.i.tled him. The more he thought on this subject, the wider grew his intentions concerning the child. His fatherly nature was aroused and eager for action.

There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he lived to this boy's age. It was not alone in the name, but something also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and brought no unfamiliar sound.

The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from his table with its acc.u.mulation of letters and papers, he looked absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life.

By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him.

Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby clothes, leaning on a cane. He was breathing heavily, apparently from the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing.

He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table from Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by his side, and laid his cane across it.

When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said: "Excuse me. A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of coughing. This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?"

"That is my name," answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some curiosity.

"Ah! just so; you don't know me, I presume?"

"No, I don't remember to have met you before."

"It's not likely that you have, not at all likely. My name is Craft, Simon Craft. I live in Philadelphia when I'm at home."

"Ah! Philadelphia is a fine city. What can I do for you, Mr. Craft?"

"That isn't the question, sir. The question is, what can _I_ do for _you_?"

The old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door, which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat.

"Well," said Mr. Burnham, calmly, "what can you do for me?"

"Much," responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in front of him; "very much if you will give me your time and attention for a few moments."

"My time is at your disposal," replied Burnham, smiling, and leaning back in his chair somewhat wearily, "and I am all attention; proceed."

Thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only a languid curiosity. This coal magnate was accustomed to being interrupted by "cranks" of all kinds, as are most rich men, and often enjoyed short interviews with them. This one had opened the conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his listener's thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly short time, under the skilful management of the schemer. But his very next words dispelled this idea and aroused Robert Burnham to serious attention.

"Do you remember," the old man asked, "the Cherry Brook bridge disaster that occurred near Philadelphia some eight years ago?"

"Yes," replied Burnham, straightening up in his chair, "I do; I have good reason to remember it. Were you on that train?"

"I was on that train. Terrible accident, wasn't it?"

"Terrible; yes, it was terrible indeed."

"Wouldn't have been quite so bad if the cars hadn't taken fire and burned up after they went down, would it?"

"The fire was the most distressing part of it; but why do you ask me these questions?"

"You were on board, I believe, you and your wife and your child, and all went down. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, it is so. But why, I repeat, are you asking me these questions?

It is no pleasure to me to talk about this matter, I a.s.sure you."

Craft gave no heed to this protest, but kept on:--

"You and your wife were rescued in an unconscious state, were you not, just as the fire was creeping up to you?"