Everybody in Angel's knew the boy. Either under the venerable title
bestowed by Bill, or as "Tom Islington," after his adopted father, his
was a familiar presence in the settlement, and the theme of much local
criticism and comment. His waywardness, indolence, and unaccountable
amiability--a quality at once suspicious and gratuitous in a pioneer
community like Angel's--had often been the subject of fierce discussion.
A large and reputable majority believed him destined for the gallows; a
minority not quite so reputable enjoyed his presence without troubling
themselves much about his future; to one or two the evil predictions of
the majority possessed neither novelty nor terror.

"Anything for me, Bill?" asked the boy, half mechanically, with the air
of repeating some jocular formulary perfectly understood by Bill.

"Anythin' for you!" echoed Bill, with an overacted severity equally well
understood by Tommy,--"anythin' for you? No! And it's my opinion there
won't be anythin' for you ez long ez you hang around bar-rooms and spend
your valooable time with loafers and bummers. Git!"

The reproof was accompanied by a suitable exaggeration of gesture
(Bill had seized a decanter) before which the boy retreated still
good-humoredly. Bill followed him to the door. "Dern my skin, if he
hezn't gone off with that bummer Johnson," he added, as he looked down
the road.

"What's he expectin', Bill?" asked the barkeeper.

"A letter from his aunt. Reckon he'll hev to take it out in expectin'.
Likely they're glad to get shut o' him."