“Don't sham stupid, old woman, for it won't
help you now. I want to know the name of
a certain gentleman, who came to see you
after I'd been a month in the Penitentiary,
and who you suspected was nobody else but
my father. Don't you remember you told me
so, when you came to see me at Cherry Hill,
soon afterwards? Yes, you told me what a
nice man he was — such a pleasant white cravat
as he wore — and how you followed him
from Runnel's Court, and found out who he
was. And how, when you'd found out his
name, you hunted up a certain old letter from
my mother, and found out that this identical
gentleman was my father, and nothin' else.
You did n't tell him that you had a letter from
my mother, or that you knew her name — you
kept that dark with me. Now, do you hear
me? Here I stand. and there you are, and
you've got to tell me that old gentleman's name,
or I'll know the reason why!”

While Elijah was speaking, Mrs. Watson
looked up, at first in wonder, and then with a
sort of mingled fear and amazement. For
violent passions were struggling upon the colorless
features of the Convict; his lips fairly
writhed as he spoke; and the veins stood out,
swollen and purpled, upon his projecting brow.

“Lije, don't make a fool of yesself. Sit
down, and cool yer dander. What's the good
o' yer knowing the man's name?”

Elijah brought his stick upon the table, with
a sound like the report of a pistol.

“That name, I say!” he shouted, in a voice
that was thick and husky with struggling passions.
“That name, afore you speak another
word, or by — I'll go to Cherry Hill for
somethin' worse than passin' counterfeit money.
Now, perhaps you understand me?”

“Lije, it won't do you no good; he's dead,”
cried Mrs. Watson, who trembled with fright.

At these words the Convict fell back a step,
while his face displaye the very distortion of
mental torture in every writhing outline.

“Dead! You aint lyin'?” he ejaculated.

“He was drowned only a little while arter
he came to see me in Runnel's Court. It
won't do you no good to know his name. As
for your mother, she died in Montreal last
year. When she heard of the old man's
death, she sent me some money, and the next
hderI” sat tesdw,awha haeea

“And so you won't tell me the name of my
father?” said Elijah, bending across the table,
until his face nearly touched the old woman's
shoulder.

“It won't do you no good, fur —”

He reached forth his brawny hand, and
clutched her by the throat — “Now,” he whispered,
as, half suffocated, she endeavored to
tear his grip from her throat — “Now, tell me
his name, or I'll choke you dead.”

Gasping for breath, the old woman managed
to murmur, “Take your hand from my throat,
and I'll tell.” Elijah at once released his
grasp. “No foolin,' old woman, you must
tell me the name an' take your Bible oath upon
it.”

“His name,” answered the old woman,
“was John Tomson, and —”

“Will you swear to that?” fiercely interrupted
the Convict. “Now, I know his name
was n't John Tomson, for about three months
arter I was in jail, the underkeeper told me
of a gentleman who came and peeped at me
through a hole in the wall. This gentleman
was exactly like the one who visited you in
Runnel's Court- I know his name, and I jist
want to see if you have truth enough in you
to tell it to me. What was the name of my
father? By the long days and nights I spent
at Cherry Hill, I wont ask you that question
again.”

The old woman was now thoroughly frightened.
It was her first impulse to raise the cry
of murder, but when she looked at the face of
the Convict — ferocious with a strange determination—
she abandoned this idea.

“The name o' the old gentleman, who came
to see me in Runnel's Court, was Hicks — Jacob
D. Z. Hicks — and he was drowned about
three months arterward. He was very rich,
or folks said that he was, but his creditors arter
he was dead had to whistle for their money.
An' he's the man I tuk to be your father —
s' 'elp me God!”

Long before she had concluded, the savage
look of the Convict had been replaced by an
expression of blank despair.

“Jacob D. Z. Hicks!” the words came
from his lips in an under tone — “That's the
the name. That's the man who looked at me
through the hole in the wall. And he's dead,
yes —” his voice rose into a shriek, as he

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

clutched his stick with both hands — “He's
where I can't get at him.”

Apparently overwhelmed by the violence of
his emotions, he sank into a chair, and buried
his face in his hands. The old woman could
hear him murmur, in tones that were alternately
deep with rage, or tremulous with almost unmanly
feeling —

“That's the name. That's it. And he
looked at me through the hole in the jail, and
did not stir a hand for me. And he knew
that I had been put in, for passing a counterfeit
note on his own bank — and knew that I
was his son. He did. And now when I
come out o' jail, the word “Convict” follers
me everywhere, and shuts me out from every
hope of ever gettin' an honest livelihood —
yes, Langfeldt, who was hung last fall, was
better off than I am! I think I'd go ten years
in the Penitentiary jist for the chance o' havin'
five minutes talk with this father of mine!”

“What 'ud you do with him, Lije?”

“Talk with him”— he raised his face; there
were tears in his fiery eyes —“Talk with him,
that's all.”

For a little while they sat in silence; the
old woman “huddled up” in her shawl, and
Elijah with his face buried in his hands. At
length he rose, put on his cap, and approached
the pine table —

“Where's Kate?” he said —“I have not
seen her these two weeks.”

“Up stairs — asleep,” was the answer.

“Now look here, I'm a goin' to do somethin'
that will set me up for life, or — never
mind what. I know your disposition, and
know you'd make no more bones of sellin'
Kate to the devil, than you would of eatin'
your breakfast. If I succeed in what I'm
goin' to undertake, Kate will hear from me.
Tell her that, and she will receive from me,
what will put her out of want for life. For
though she aint my sister by blood, she is my
sister in fact; we've been brought up together,
and I think more of her than a dozen sisters
by blood. If I fail, old woman, why you'll
never hear of me again. In that case I'll be
a dead man, or a `Number' in some jail or
other. But don't you put any of your devil's
tricks to work about Kate — if you ever bring
harm to her, by the living —, I'll come back
and haunt you, though I'm dead as dead can
be. Good night, old woman.”

He moved to the door —

“Where are you goin', Lije?”

“To complete my education,” he said, turning
his head over his shoulder, with a broad
grin upon his colorless face —“You see, when
I was out at Cherry Hill, they brought me a
Bible, and set me to readin' and thinkin'—
they did. They spoke sich smooth words to
me, while they were buryin' me alive in that
stone coffin. They did. And now I'm goin'
to complete the education which they begun.
Good night, old woman.”

With these words he left the hovel, and as
the door closed on him, the old woman, still
“crumpling” the bank notes in her fingers,
muttered to herself —

“Where have I seen that gentleman afore?
I think I know him spite of his black hair and
whiskers?”

She did not allude to Elijah, but to the gentleman
with whom she had contracted the ruin
of poor Kate. She sat there alone, until the
lamp flickered its last, and then crawled up
stairs to the miserable bed, first stopping a moment
to listen at the door of her daughter's
room. All was quiet there. Poor Kate, whom
she had deliberately sold to the “English
Manager,” otherwise known as the “Gentleman,”
was sleeping the sound sleep of innocence
and toil.