“Murphy,” said the priest quickly—“Michael Murphy. He is the father of the boy.”
The Governor looked the old man over carefully, and the old man's eyes fell under his keen glances.
“Mike Murphy?” asked the Governor slowly. “Are you the Mike Murphy who used to go to old No. 3 school in Harmontown, forty—no, nearly fifty—years ago? There was a Mike Murphy sat on my bench. Are you the boy they called Red Head?”
The old man tried to answer. His lips formed the words, but his voice did not come. He nodded his head.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said the Governor, and Father Maurice sat down hopefully. Mike Murphy dropped into a chair with deeper dejection.
“Well, well!” The Governor nodded his head slowly, his gray eyes searching the ruddy face before him. “So you are the Mike Murphy who used to drub me?”