Bartlett recalled a week in June, when, with rare credulity, he had kidnapped a stranger and had discovered that he had been the one in truth to be kidnapped. He turned his head and saw the Watermelon crossing the room. He knew that it was the boy by the size of the shoulders and the grace of the long limbs, but the thin, good-natured face was covered with a month's growth of light hair, the brown suit with the pale green and red stripe was a suit no longer, merely a bundle of rags. The shirt was opened at the throat, without a tie or button, while the panama was shapeless and colorless, but worn with the familiar jaunty ease.
"Ah," said Bartlett. "Jeroboam Martin."
He smiled as one who meets an old and congenial friend, for Jeroboam Martin had shown a fine capability for getting out of a tight place and carrying through a desired project with success and nerve, and Bartlett had grown to like the lad.
"Am I bum enough?" asked the Watermelon, with no answering smile. When one has come to test love, life is too grim for smiles.
"You are fairly dirty and shabby," agreed Bartlett. "You look thin."
"I have had hard luck," said the Watermelon. "How's Billy?"
"Pretty well, thanks."
"Expecting me?" asked the Watermelon, taking off his hat and gently patting his back hair as he had a way of doing.
Bartlett nodded. "Yes, but not exactly as you are."
"It's tough on the little girl," muttered the Watermelon. He sank into a chair and stretched out his long legs with the weather-stained trousers and dirty, broken shoes. "Oh, mama, I'm tired. Been hoofing it since sun-up yesterday with hardly a stop, I wanted to see the kid so."