“No, it has been shut down since Mr. Glidden’s illness, but it is in charge of a faithful, honest old fellow, his foreman, a man named Bartlett.”
Ralph left the lawyer’s house and started in the direction of the factory as just indicated to him. It appeared to be located on the river, about half a mile from the center of the town.
In order to reach it he had to go back a few blocks towards the village. He saw no trace of the men who had followed him. As he passed an alley opening, however, he slowed up to watch the maneuvers of a man who interested him.
This was the man who had been knocked over in the street by the two men who had followed Ralph. He was standing near a barrel which seemed to be used as a receptacle for the kitchen refuse of a house near by. He had reached into it and picked out a piece of stale bread and lifted it to his lips.
“Don’t eat that,” said Ralph impulsively, slipping quickly to the side of the man.
The latter flushed up, put the scrap of food behind him and looked rather annoyed and angry. He did not have a good face, and it looked the worse because of his recent beating. Still, the man’s forlorn wretchedness appealed to the whole-hearted young railroader in a forcible way.
“What will I eat?” growled the man, scowling hard.
“You seem to be hungry--go and get a good meal somewhere.”
Ralph extended half a dollar. The man stared at it, then at Ralph.
“Crackey!” he said breathlessly--“do you mean it?”