“Who is it?” Through his brain raced the several unpleasant episodes of the past two days and he wasn’t taking any chances.
“I do not know. He begs to see you.”
“All right, come along down.”
The two went to the front of the house where the boy saw a man who seemed very much distraught. He was pacing the floor in quick nervous strides, and as he held his hat in his hand, with his other hand he kept brushing back his hair, and jerking his arms as if the passing moments were matters of life and death. When Jim and the servant entered, the chap spun around on his heel.
“Pardon, pardon, senor—I am as one mad. You are not a father, you cannot know. I beg of you to help me—Please come—” The sentences were chopped off incoherently.
“Tell me who you are,” Jim interrupted sharply.
“Gonzalas, that is my name. Pedro Gonzalas. I have been in America where you do things well, and are humane—”
“Suppose you sit down and tell me what you want,” Jim invited. The servant drew up chairs, and the man sat on the edge of one, but he jumped up again immediately.
“I cannot sit quietly when my child is at death’s door, senor. I beg of you to help me—”
“You’ll have to tell me what you want.”