“Set down,” said Jabez, and unlocked a heavy chest which stood in one corner of the room. He took out a little case and handed it to Tommy.
“Look at it,” he said.
It was an old daguerreotype—a boy of ten or twelve, with bright face and wide-open, sparkling eyes.
“Thet’s me,” said Jabez.
Tommy glanced from the fresh face of the picture to the grizzled one opposite him.
“Ay, look,” growled the man. “You’d ha’ looked a long time afore you’d ’a’ knowed it. I spiled my life—no matter how. Now you’re goin’ t’ make me spile another. Don’t y’ reckon one’s enough?”
His voice was quivering with emotion.
“Don’t y’ reckon one’s enough?” he repeated. “I’ve allers wanted th’ chance t’ set some boy straight on th’ right road, but I hadn’t found the boy worth it. I’ve watched you from th’ time Miss Bessie showed y’ t’ me at the schoolhouse. I’ve heard ’em talkin’ about y’, an’ I’ve seen what was in y’. All th’ time y’ was studyin’ I was watchin’, an’ at last I said t’ myself: ‘Jabez Smith, thet’s th’ boy you’ve been lookin’ fer. You’ve spiled one life, but, with God’s help, you’re goin’ t’ make up fer it now.’ An’ I’ve lived in it, an’ gloried in it. It’s been meat an’ drink t’ me. An’ here you’re goin’ t’ snatch it away!”
He paused with a kind of sob in his voice that seemed to choke him, while Tommy sat staring at him, long past the power of reply. But the sob was echoed from the other room.
“I won’t be still!” cried a voice, and the door was thrown back and Bessie Andrews appeared on the threshold. “I’ve heard every word,” she continued through her tears. “I couldn’t help it. I was just coming to see you, Mr. Smith. I’m glad of it!”