“It is clear there is something between them,” decided Gerald, “and that something must relate to me and the papers Mr. Wentworth is so anxious to secure.”
But in that event it puzzled Gerald that Mr. Standish seemed to take no special pains to cultivate their acquaintance—as he might naturally have been expected to do. He was destined to find out that Standish was not idle.
One day—the fifth of his stay in St. Louis—Gerald was walking in one of the poorer districts of the city, when a boy of ten, with a thin, pallid face and shabby clothes, sidled up to him.
“Oh, mister,” he said, whimpering, “won’t you come wid me? I’m afraid my mudder will beat me if I go home alone.”
“What makes you think your mother will beat you?”
“Coz she sent me out for a bottle of whisky this mornin’ and I broke it.”
“Does your mother drink whisky?” asked Gerald compassionately.
“Yes, mister, she’s a reg’lar tank, she is.”
“I have a little brudder. She licks him awful.”
“No; he got killed on the railroad two years ago.”
“I am sorry for you,” said Gerald, in a tone of sympathy. “Here is a quarter.”
“Perhaps that will prevent your mother from beating you.”
“I don’t know,” said the boy doubtfully. “Mudder’s a hard case. She’s awful strong. Won’t you go home with me?”
“I am afraid I can’t say anything that will make any impression on your mother. Where do you live?”
The boy pointed to a shabby house of three stories, situated not far away.
“Perhaps I may be able to do the little fellow some good,” thought Gerald. “At any rate, as the house is so near, I may as well go in.”
“Very well,” he said aloud. “I’ll go in and see your mother. Do you think that she has been drinking lately?”
“No; I spilt the whisky. That’s why she’s mad.”
Gerald followed the boy to the house. His companion opened the outer door, and revealed a steep staircase covered with a very ragged oil-cloth, and led the way up.
When he reached the head of the first flight he kept on.
Gerald followed the boy, inhaling, as he went up, musty and disagreeable odors, and felt that if it had not been on an errand of mercy he would have been inclined to retreat and make his way back to the street.
The boy pushed on to the rear room on the third floor, and opened the door a little way.