A low whistle from the direction of the woodshed told him that some one was there—some one, he theorized, who had thrown the pebbles against the window to attract his attention, and who did not care to manifest himself openly—in all probability, Tom Dalton.
Will found his suspicions verified as he approached the shed, and a disorderly figure stepped from behind the door.
“Tom?” he queried, peering into the face of the other.
“Yes, it’s me,” came the low, dogged response. “I hadn’t ought to bother you, Will, but I’m nigh starved.”
“Hungry, eh, Tom?”
“I should say so. Bring me a hunk of bread and meat, and I’ll get out of town and your way.”
Poor Tom had become so used to being in people’s way that he could not regard his association with any human being as otherwise than a disagreeable tolerance.
“You ain’t in my way, Tom,” said Will, kindly, “and I’ll not only get you something to eat, but I’ll find a place for you to sleep to-night. Wait a minute.”
Will returned to the house, and, when he came back, tendered his belated companion the promised “hunk” of bread and meat, which Tom seized and devoured ravenously.
“Well, Tom,” said Will, finally, as the runaway bolted the last morsel of food with a sigh of intense satisfaction, “what are your plans?”