"Mother got divorced from father, and married again down South,
somewhere. Father left home twenty years ago. He's somewhere in
California--if he ain't dead."

"He isn't dead."

"How do you know?"

"Because I am Henry Guest, of Dentville, and"--he stopped, and,
shading his eyes with his hand as he deliberately examined the
tramp, added coldly--"your father, I reckon."

There was a slight pause. The young man put down the boot he had
taken up. "Then I'm to stay here?"

"Certainly not. Here my name is only West, and I have no son.
You'll go on to San Jose, and stay there until I look into this
thing. You haven't got any money, of course?" he asked, with a
scarcely suppressed sneer.

"I've got a little," returned the young man.

"How much?"

The tramp put his hand into his breast, and drew out a piece of
folded paper containing a single gold coin.

"Five dollars. I've kept it a month; it doesn't cost much to live
as I do," he added, dryly.