"An' he war a man," Polly went on, dreamily; "jest like yuh thought, Bob; but his hair hed growed so long, and thar was so much beard on his face, I jest reckons his own mother wudn't never a knowed 'im."
"But did you get close enough to him to say a single word, Polly—just to ask him who he was?" the boy demanded, faintly.
Thad unconsciously let his arm glide around the figure of his chum. He seemed to fear the result, no matter what the answer of the mountain girl might be.
"Sure I did. Thet's what I went up thar fur, ain't it?" Polly went on to say. "They hed him chained ter ther rock. I reckons thar mout a be'n a guard alongside, sum o' ther time; but right then he must a be'n away. So arter peekin' around, an' not seein' any critter astandin' sentry, I jest mosied up clost ter ther man, an' touched him on ther arm."
She paused again, as if to collect her thoughts, and then yawned; but it was only through habit, and not because Polly felt sleepy; far from it, she was seldom more wide-awake than just then, though it was hard for Thad to believe it.
"He looked kinder s'prised tuh see me, 'cause like I done tole yuh, gals, they ain't never be'n 'lowed 'round thar, sense he was took. In course I tole him as how I jest kim ter fin' out who he mout be, 'case thar was somebody as 'peared mighty wantin' ter know thet same."
"And did he tell you; could he speak still, and explain?" asked Bob.
"He shore cud, Bob," she replied, a little more earnestly now, as though she realized that the critical point of her narrative had been reached. "I never'd a knowed him, wid all ther hair on his face; but when he says his name it was shore enuff—" and she paused dramatically.
"My father?" gasped Bob.
"Yep, an' no other then Mistah Quail, as used ter be ther marshal o' this deestrict sum years ago,—yer own dad, Bob!"