Burnham Breaker | Page 7

at last! It'll be all right now; only be cautious, Simon! be
cautious!"
CHAPTER II.

A STRANGE VISITOR.
It was the day after the circus. Robert Burnham sat in his office on
Lackawanna Avenue, busy with his afternoon mail. As he laid the last
letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he
saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy,
dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for the
joys to come. The pleasure he had found in his generous deed stayed
with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even now in
the light of his kindly face.
He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph. It had
awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. He had spoken to his
wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his
little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who
worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and
whose name was--Ralph! Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly
to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad and
help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the
screen-room.
But he had already resolved to do this, and more. The mystery
surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. Obscure and humble
though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to which
his parentage entitled him. The more he thought on this subject, the
wider grew his intentions concerning the child. His fatherly nature was
aroused and eager for action.
There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so
much of what his own child had been as of what he might have been
had he lived to this boy's age. It was not alone in the name, but
something also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look
of the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope,
and brought no unfamiliar sound.
The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from
his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked absently
out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of this boy who had

dropped so suddenly into the current of his life.
By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him.
Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in
shabby clothes, leaning on a cane. He was breathing heavily, apparently
from the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no
sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing.
He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table from
Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by his
side, and laid his cane across it.
When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said:
"Excuse me. A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of
coughing. This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?"
"That is my name," answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some
curiosity.
"Ah! just so; you don't know me, I presume?"
"No, I don't remember to have met you before."
"It's not likely that you have, not at all likely. My name is Craft, Simon
Craft. I live in Philadelphia when I'm at home."
"Ah! Philadelphia is a fine city. What can I do for you, Mr. Craft?"
"That isn't the question, sir. The question is, what can I do for you?"
The old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door,
which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat.
"Well," said Mr. Burnham, calmly, "what can you do for me?"
"Much," responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in front
of him; "very much if you will give me your time and attention for a
few moments."

"My time is at your disposal," replied Burnham, smiling, and leaning
back in his chair somewhat wearily, "and I am all attention; proceed."
Thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only a
languid curiosity. This coal magnate was accustomed to being
interrupted by "cranks" of all kinds, as are most rich men, and often
enjoyed short interviews with them. This one had opened the
conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to
be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his
listener's thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly
short time, under the skilful management of the