In a corner of the sofa was a tiny huddle, outlined vaguely as human,
under a faded shawl. Drawing aside the folds, the quack disclosed a wild
little face, framed in a mass of glowing red hair.

"That Hardscrabbler's young 'un," he said. "She was crying quietly to
herself, in the darkness outside the jail, poor little tyke. So I picked
her up, and" (with a sort of tender awkwardness) "she was glad to come
with me. Seemed to kind of take to me. Kiddies generally do."

"Do they? That's curious."

"I suppose you think so," replied the quack, without rancor.

"What are you going to do with her?"

"I'll see, later. At present I'm going to keep her here with us. She's
only seven, and her mother's dead. Are you staying here to-night?"

"Got to. Missed my connection."

"Then at least you'll let me pay your hotel bill, if you won't take my
money."

"Why, yes: I suppose so," said the other grudgingly. "I'll look at the
boy in the morning. But he'll be all right. Only, don't take up your
itinerating again for a few days."

"I'm through, I tell you. Give me a growing city to settle in and I'll
go in for the regular proprietary manufacturing game. Know anything
about Worthington?"