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Newspaper Page Text
His promotion to under turnkey
somewhat mollified his disappoint
ment. Then, too, he had on,e soft
spot in his heart Many a mile away,
visited only occasionally through the
,years, but cherished, idolized, his
stepdaughter lived a quiet, happy life
in a peaceful haven where he had be
stowed her. She had been like a real
daughter to his dead wife the only
golden thread in the warp and woof
of his stern life.
It was almost a year to the day
after his escape that Eldred Ware
ham, pursuing a lonely country road,
paused before a typical corners tav
ern. Twelve months had a good deal
changed his appearance, due mainly
to the hirsute appendages that well
covered his face. He had become an
aimless wanderer. He was footsore
and penniless. He entered the place
to find its proprietor half asleep in
"I just want to rest for a few min
utes," was his plea and the publican
nodded agreeably, for he was glad of
company. The evident respectability I
01 me casual visitor seemea to im
press him. After a few moments jof
desultory study of Wareham he spoke
"I reckon you haven't much cash,
nor a job?"
N "You are doubly right," was the
"I like your appearance and maybe
I can offer you something," proceed
ed the tavern keeper. "Here's a
queer case! About a week ago a like
ly young fellow came along on a
farmer's wagon. He got-off to get a
drink. The more he got the more he
wanted. He wouldn't go on to his
destination wherever that might be.
He's now down with the horrors in
his room upstairs. We called a doc
tor, but he says the young fellow
must have led a terrible life, for he
don't think he'll ever get up again.
He had a pocket full of money, but
no paper telling who he was. Will
you nurse him for good pay?"
"I'll be glad to do it for nothing,"
said Wareham eagerly.
Never was there a better nurse,
but the ministrations of Wareham
proved of no avail. The patient took
a great liking to Wareham. They
became as brothers, and he told him
the story of his life.
He had been a reckless, riotous fel
low from boyhood. He was an or
phan and brought up by a high
church dignitary in England. The
love of drink seemed born in him, he
became a confirmed dipsomaniac and
finally his uncle had cast him off. He
told him he never wished to see him
again, and as a last chance he gave
Alan Moore a letter to an old friend,
an aged clergyman in America. If
he behaved himself this man might
look after him. Moore was provided
with money. He had fallen by the
wayside and was now dying.
"I am not going to live," he de
clared; "bury me without a name."
Eldred Wareham was strangely
drawn to his patient. He told his own
story. It drew them closer together.
When Moore died Wareham saw to it
that he was decently buried. Moore
had told the tavern keeper to turn
over to Wareham what remained of
his money. He had given to Ware
ham some papers he had concealed
on his person.
It was two years later when Robert
Dale left his prison duties for the first
vacation of years. He was in fine fet
tle. He was about to see the step
daughter he loved and whom he had
not seen for nearly three years. He
carried in his pocket a notification
that on the first of the coming month
he was to be promoted to the highest
office at the prison within the gift of
the state, at a salary almost princely.
-Dale arrived at Hopeton to be
greeted joyously by Mary Dale. It
was the third day after his coming
that a man passed the house at whom
he stared with a start. Quickly he
called his stepdaughter.
"Who is that man?" he almost