CHAPTER XXIII.
OLD SPOONER.
Felipe Jalisco always leaped to his feet like a cat when a knock sounded on his door. He could tell in a twinkling if it was Hagan who knocked. This time he knew it was not. The rap had been faltering and feeble.
Jalisco's hand sought the knife he always carried.
"Who is it?" he demanded.
The reply to this question was a repetition of the hesitating knocking.
"Who are you? and what do you want?" sharply cried the Mexican lad.
"I am very sorry to disturb you," said a cracked, unsteady voice. "I have the next room. You can do me a favor."
Now Felipe was lonesome. Staying hidden in that squalid room had made him wretched and homesick. He longed to talk to some one, and he cautiously opened the door.
Outside stood a man bent as if with age, leaning heavily on a crooked cane. He was the picture of poverty. His threadbare clothes had been mended in many places. His dirty, gray hair was long and uncombed. The soles of his shoes were almost wholly worn away, and the uppers were broken in two or three places. He brushed his hair back from his eyes with a trembling hand that seemed unfamiliar with soap and water.