“And you’re going to leave a mighty lonely fellow behind,” said Amesbury. “I’ll have to break myself in all over again. I’ve a notion I’ll kidnap you both and take you back to the bush with me.”
“Can’t you come with us?” plead Paul. “Change your mind about it, and come. Your sister would give the world to see you again, I’m sure. We do want you. It will be a jolly trip if you come.”
A shadow passed over Amesbury’s face, and left it again—as on the evening when he told them his life story—haggard, old, and as one suffering inexpressible pain. He was dressing now. He made no answer for several minutes, and seemed to be struggling with himself. Finally he spoke:
“Thank you ever and ever so much, fellows. It’s better that I do not go. The world forgets good deeds quickly. It never forgets bad ones. Mine were bad. I was a jailbird once. No one who ever knew it will ever forget it. My appearance in New York would bring shame to my sister and her children, if she has any. God alone knows how I long to see them! The news of who and what I was would spread among their friends—even their new friends—and they would be shunned and made miserable because of me. No, it’s my punishment. I must not go.”
Amesbury had again assumed his good-natured, whimsical attitude when they went below to breakfast, and chaffed and joked the boys as usual.
Presently Ahmik appeared, to accompany them to the railway station.
“Come back hunt some more,” Ahmik invited, as the train rolled into the station. “Miss you very much.”
“We owe you so much,” said Paul, as he shook Amesbury’s hand. “I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t picked us up.”
“I’ll never be forgettin’ you, an’ how rare kind you were,” declared Dan.
“You chaps owe me nothing,” insisted Amesbury. “The debt’s all the other way. You earned your keep, made some money for me, and made a few weeks of my life very pleasant.”