“But, hold your hosses for a second. Where are you bound for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you going when you started to reform Louey?”
“I was looking for work and food.”
“I see,” mused the other, now grave of face. “You look as if you were about played out.”
“I am faint from walking and fasting.”
“Well, why don’t you rest and eat?”
“I have no money to buy food with.”
“Huh! well, well. Gave your last doller to Louey, eh?” admired the other. “I’ll go back and get it.”
“No you won’t,” growled the stranger, seizing his arm and pulling him into the road. “Men in my family don’t give and take back.”
“I see. What’s your name?”
“Stanley Malcolm.”
“Would you mind if I called you Splinter for short?”
“I certainly should,” cried Stanley.
“All right; I won’t, then. My name is Thomas, Bub Thomas, and the men at the mills will call you Reddy, or Rusty, as sure as you are born. Your hair is a reddish brown, you know.”
“My hair is my own and as for your men at
