“I am not questioning you without an object,” said Mr. Fitler, “as you will learn after awhile. I will have to carry this matter to the alms-house, and examine their books and make inquiries, before we can go further. It is a pity you do not remember the name of your reputed father.”
“Who said I didn’t?” asked Will. “He wasn’t no father of mine, for I recollect he treated me bad. What’s more, he left me there under a different name from that he carried himself.”
“What was that name?” asked Mr. Somers, facing Will closely, and looking eagerly into his eyes.
“Jake Johnson.”
With a loud cry of joy, Mr. Somers sprung forward and clasped Will in his arms.
“My son! my son!” he cried, “my long-lost, long-sought son! Oh! this is too great joy! Have I found you at last, my dearly-loved son?”
Will struggled in this close embrace, and looked inquiringly at Mr. Fitler.
“He is right, Will. There is no doubt that he is your father,” said the latter.
With a strong muscular exertion Will pushed the old man from him, his hands firmly grasping his shoulders, and looked him sternly in the eye.
“If you are my father, why was I left in the poor-house? Why did you turn me loose on the world?” he bitterly asked.