Joshua pursued, his youthful heart afire with the lust to mete out punishment for a great wrong done him. The Whimperer darted between two tents as Joshua closed in on him, then whipped to the left and was out of sight when Joshua reached the rear. But ahead a tent swayed back and forth, as if some one had entered it violently and collided with one of the poles. Toward it Joshua darted, flung back the flaps, and looked inside.
There came a guttural howl, and The Whimperer threw himself flat on the hard earth and wriggled under the rear wall of the tent. But Joshua did not pursue him. He stood stock-still in the entrance, gazing in unbelief at a man who sat at a rude table, on which was a lighted candle in a beer bottle, and stared back at him, half risen from his chair, motionless.
And this man was Felix Wolfgang, lean and sandy-haired and freckled as the egg of a guinea hen—Number Twenty-three forty-four in the House of Refuge.
Joshua was the first to recover from the shock. His tense muscles relaxed and his surprise found voice.
“Say, am I off my nut, or are you Number Twenty-three forty-four? It’s one of the two—that’s certain.”
Slim Wolfgang settled back into his seat and a sickly smile played on his lips.
“Youse ain’t nuts, I guess,” he croaked half moodily. “I’m Slim Wolfgang, all right—Number Twenty-three forty-four. An’ youse’re ole Tony. I’d know youse any place. How’s ever’t’ing, Tony?”
“What in the dickens are you doing here?” Joshua took several steps into the tent, but did not offer his hand when he reached Wolfgang’s side.
“An’ I might ast de same of youse, ol’-timer,” Wolfgang retorted, rolling a cigarette and letting it drip from his lower lip when lighted.
“That’s quickly told. I’m working as a hammerman for Demarest, Spruce and Tillou.”