Burnham Breaker | Page 5

for a good many days; I worked real hard too, a-doin' everything, an' they never let me go into their show but once, only jest once. Well, w'en we got here to Scranton I got sick, an' they wouldn't take me no furder 'cause I wasn't any good to 'em, an' they went off an' lef me, an' nex' mornin' I laid down up there along the road a-cryin' an' a-feelin' awful bad, an' then Uncle Billy, he happened to come that way, an' he foun' me an' took me home with him. He lives in part o' Widow Maloney's house, you know, an' he ain't got nobody but me, an' I ain't got nobody but him, an' we live together. That's why they call him Bachelor Billy, 'cause he ain't never got married. Oh! he's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has, awful good!" And the boy looked out again musingly into the blue distance.
The man had not once stirred during this recital. His eyes had been fixed on the boy's face, and he had listened with intense interest.
"Well, Ralph," he said, "that is indeed a strange story. And is that all you know about yourself? Have you no clew to your parentage or birthplace?"
"No, sir; not any. That's what I want to find out when I git money enough."
"How much money have you now?"
"About nine dollars, countin' what I'll save from nex' pay day."
"And how do you propose to proceed when you have money enough?"
"Hire a lawyer to 'vestigate. The lawyer he keeps half the money, an' gives the other half of it to a 'tective, an' then the 'tective, he finds out all about you. Uncle Billy says that's the way. He says if you git a good smart lawyer you can find out 'most anything."
"And suppose you should find your parents, and they should be rich and give you a great deal of money, how would you spend it?"
"Well, I don't know; I'd give a lot of it to Uncle Billy, I guess, an' some to Widow Maloney, an'--an' I'd go to the circus, an'--but I wouldn't care so much about the money, sir, if I could have folks like other boys have. If I could only have a mother, that's what I want worst, a mother to kiss me every day, an' be good to me that way, like mothers are, you know; if I could only jest have that, I wouldn't want nothin' else, not never any more."
The man turned his face away.
"And wouldn't you like to have a father too?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, I would; but I could git along without a father, a real father. Uncle Billy's been a kind o' father to me; but I ain't never had no mother, nor no sister; an' that's what I want now, an" I want 'em very bad. Seems, sometimes, jes' as if I couldn't wait; jes' as if I couldn't stan' it no longer 'thout 'em. Don't--don't you s'pose the things we can't have is the things we want worst?"
"Yes, my boy: yes. You've spoken a truth as old as the ages. That which I myself would give my fortune for I can never have. I mean my little boy who--who died. I cannot have him back. His name too was Ralph."
For a few moments there was silence in the screen-room. The child was awed by the man's effort to suppress his deep emotion.
At last Ralph said, rising:--
"Well, I mus' go now an' tell Uncle Billy."
Mr. Burnham rose in his turn.
"Yes," he said, "you'll be late for the circus if you don't hurry. What! you're not going? Oh! yes, you must go. Here, here's a silver dollar to add to your identity fund; now you can afford to spend the quarter. Yes," as the boy hesitated to accept the proffered money, "yes, you must take it; you can pay it back, you know, when--when you come to your own. And wait! I want to help you in that matter of establishing your identity. Come to my office, and we'll talk it over. Let me see; to-day is Tuesday. Friday we shall shut down the screens a half-day for repairs. Come on Friday afternoon."
"Thank you, sir; yes, sir, I will."
"All right; good-by!"
"Good-by, sir!"
When Ralph reached the circus grounds the crowds were still pushing in through the gate at the front of the big tent, and he had to take his place far back in the line and move slowly along with the others.
Leaning wearily against a post near the entrance, and watching the people as they passed in, stood an old man. He was shabbily dressed, his clothes' were very dusty, and an old felt hat was pulled low on his forehead. He was pale and gaunt, and an occasional hollow cough gave