Secluded in the lawyer’s private room Ralph told the whole story of his adventures from the time he left Sharpman at the court-house door.

When he had finished, Bachelor Billy said, “Puir lad!” then, turning to Sharpman, “it was no’ his fau’t, thenk ye?”

“Oh, no!” said the lawyer, smiling, “any one might have met with the same fate:  dreadful town, Wilkesbarre is, dreadful!  Have you had any dinner, Ralph?”

“No, sir,” said Ralph, “I haven’t.”

“Well, come into my wash-room and brighten yourself up a little.  You’re somewhat travel-stained, as it were.”

In ten minutes Ralph reappeared, looking clean and comparatively fresh.

“Now,” said Sharpman, “you don’t resemble quite so strongly the man who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho.  Here, take this,” reaching out some money, “and go down to the restaurant on the corner and surprise yourself with the best dinner you can buy.  Oh, you can pay it back,” as the boy hesitated about accepting the money; “we’ll call it a loan if you like.  Come, you agreed to obey my instructions, you know.  Buckley will wait here for you till you get back.  Now, don’t hurry!” he said, as Ralph passed out at the door, “there’s plenty of time.”

For some minutes after the boy’s departure, Sharpman and Bachelor Billy sat talking over Ralph’s recent adventure.  Then the conversation turned to the prospect for the future, and they agreed that it was very bright.  Finally, the lawyer said:—­

“He was pretty sick when you first found him, wasn’t he?”

“He was that, verra bad indeed.”

“Called a doctor for him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes!  Dr. Gunther.  He comed every day for a for’night, an’ often he comed twice i’ the same day.  He was awfu’ sick, the chil’ was.”

“Footed the doctor’s bill, I suppose, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, yes; but I did na min’ that so long’s the lad got well.”

“Had to pay the woman to nurse him and look after him, I take it?”

“Oh! well, yes; but she needit the money, mon, an’ the lad he needit the noorsin’, an’ it was doin’ a bit double good wi’ ma siller, do ye see?”

“Well, you’ve housed and clothed and fed the boy for a matter of three years or thereabouts, haven’t you?”

“Why, the lad’s lived wi’ me; he had a right to’t.  He’s the same as my own son’d be, min’ ye.”

“You collect his wages, I presume?”

“Oh, now! what’d I be doin’ wi’ the wee bit money that a baby like him’d earn?  He’s a-savin’ o’ it.  It ain’t much, but mayhap it’ll buy a bit o’ schoolin’ for the lad some day.  Ye s’ould see the braw way he’ll read an’ write now, sir.”

Sharpman sat for some time as if in deep thought.  Finally, he said:—­

“Look here, Buckley!  You’re a poor man; you can’t afford to throw away what little money you earn, nor to let an opportunity slip for turning an honest penny.  You have done a good deal for the boy; I don’t see why you shouldn’t be rewarded.”