True to Himself | Page 9

if I would be able to sleep. There
was no use worrying about matters, as it would do no good, so I was
inclined to treat the affair philosophically and make the best of it.
An hour passed, and I was just dropping into a light doze when a noise
outside attracted my attention. I listened intently and heard a man's
footsteps.
I was inclined to call out, and, in fact, was on the point of so doing,
when the door of the tool house opened and in the dim light I
recognized the form of the tramp moulder who earlier in the day had so
impudently asked me for help.
I was not greatly surprised to see him, for, as mentioned before, the old
tool house was frequently used by men of his stamp. He had as much
right there as I had, and though I was chagrined to see him enter I was
in no position to protest.

On the contrary, I deemed it advisable to keep quiet. If he did not see
me, so much the better. If he did, who could tell what indignities he
might visit upon me?
So I crouched down behind the empty barrels, hardly daring to breathe.
The man stumbled into the building, leaving the door wide open.
By his manner I was certain that he had been drinking heavily, and his
rambling soliloquy proved it.
"The same old shebang," he mumbled to himself, as he swayed around
in the middle of the floor, "the same old shebang where Aaron
Woodward and I parted company four years ago. He's took care of his
money, and I've gone to the dogs," and he gave a yawn and sat down on
top of a barrel.
I was thoroughly surprised at his words. Was it possible that this
seedy-looking individual had once been intimate with Duncan
Woodward's father? It hardly seemed reasonable. I made a rapid
calculation and concluded that the meeting must have had something to
do with the proposed railroad in which I knew Mr. Woodward had held
an interest. Perhaps this tramp had once been a prosperous contractor.
"Great times them were. Plenty of money and nothing to do," continued
the man. "Wonder if any one in Darbyville would recognize-- hold up,
Stumpy, you mustn't repeat that name too often or you'll be mentioning
it in public when it ain't no interest for you to do it. Stumpy, John
Stumpy, is good enough for the likes of you."
And with great deliberation Mr. John Stumpy brought forth a short clay
pipe which he proceeded to fill and light with evident satisfaction.
During the brief period of lighting up I caught a good glance at his face,
and fancied that I saw beneath the surface of dirt and dissipation a look
of shrewdness and intelligence. Evidently he was one of the
unfortunates who allowed drink to make off with their brains.
Mr. John Stumpy puffed on in silence for several minutes. I wondered

what he intended to do, and was not prepared for the surprises that were
to follow.
"Times are changed and no mistake," he went on. "Here I am, down at
the bottom, Nick Weaver dead, Woodward a rich man, and Carson
Strong in jail. Humph! but times do change!"
Carson Strong! My heart gave a bound. This man was speaking of my
father. What did it mean? What did the tramp know of the events of the
past? As I lay behind the barrels, I earnestly hoped he would go on with
his talk. I had heard just enough to arouse my curiosity.
I was certain that I had never, until that day, seen the man. What, then,
could he have in common with my father?
Instinctively I connected the man with the cause of my father's
imprisonment-- I will not say downfall, because I firmly believed him
innocent. Why I should do so I cannot to this day explain, but from the
instant he mentioned my parent's name the man was firmly fixed in my
memory.
In a few moments Mr. John Stumpy had puffed his pipe out, leaving
the place filled with a heavy and vile smoke which gave me all I could
do to keep from coughing. Then he slowly knocked the ashes from the
bowl and restored the pipe to his pocket.
"Now I reckon I'm in pretty good trim to go ahead," he muttered as he
arose. "No use of talking; there ain't anything like a good puff to steady
a man's nerves. Was a time when I didn't need it, but them times are
gone, and the least little job on hand upsets me. Wonder how much that
old woman left behind."
I nearly uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Was this man speaking
of Mrs. Canby?