"He will do us credit, never fear," exclaimed the kindly gentleman. "But the coach is here and we will leave."
Paying the bill, and adding something to it for the welcome and help given, he pushed Owen into the coach before him and they drove off. Owen could hardly believe that it was really he. Who could have guessed that he would have ever ridden in a coach! And behind postillion-ridden horses! And was it true that he was not to return to Farmer Ransom? There were to be no more beatings and no more scoldings! No need to creep to bed amidst the sacks in a cold barn, and lie there shivering of a cold night, and awake perhaps stiff with the cold, and hungry because supper had been denied him on the previous night out of pure spite! It was too much to believe. He sat forward in the coach, now looking up at Mr. Benjamin and then out of the windows at the houses and streets, at the boys playing there and at the pedestrians. Why, there was Johnny Banks, a lad who had been at the poorhouse with him, and[Pg 22] was now apprenticed to the local baker. He at any rate had had plenty to eat, and Owen had been in the habit of envying him. Now! "I can't believe it!" he said to himself. "And if only they would make me a soldier!"
"Here we are. Tumble out and let us see this good lady. Ring the bell, sergeant. And, postillion, wait here for us."
A few moments later an individual appeared within the ample gate of the poorhouse, dressed in the official uniform of the place, and showing a portly figure and a face indicative of good temper. To the inquiry for Mrs. Towers he responded that she was within, and at once bustled off, impressed by the coach and by the unusually fine appearance of Mr. Benjamin. And in a little while the trio found themselves closeted with the matron, a stout old lady, who hugged Owen with affection, and lifted her fat hands in amazement at finding him in such fine company.
"Lor'!" she said, "to think that you should have such friends! Little Owen, as came to the house without a single one, and well-nigh starved!"
"Let us have the tale, my good woman," said Mr. Benjamin, as he bowed to the old dame's curtsy, and sat on a chair. "This lad here has made friends with the sergeant and myself, and we are desirous of finding out a little about him. He tells us that his name is Owen M. Jones."
"As near as we know, sir," was the answer. "But, bless yer, begging your pardon for so doing, sir, he's better than a Jones. That's the name of the poor folk[Pg 23] who first found him. It was a dark night—let me see, yes, it will be nine years ago—when they heard a coach passing along the road, which runs some yards from their cottage. That wasn't anything out of the common, for fifty and more pass by perhaps in the day. But it stopped for a while and then went on again at a gallop. Mrs. Jones told me that herself. It drove on as if there were soldiers or some one of that sort behind, and it was soon gone out of hearing. Then there came the cry of a child who is frightened at being left all alone, and when they ran out to see who it was, there was young Owen, a tiny little fellow then, seated on the roadside, with his knuckles in his eyes."
"And like the kind-hearted folks they were they brought him in and fed him, I suppose?" said Mr. Benjamin.
"That they did, sir. They weren't that well off, neither. But they had none of their own, and they took the boy in and cared for him. Then Mr. Jones walked in here as soon as it was day, and came to the house. The guardians heard his tale and saw the boy, but they never learned anything about the coach that had brought him, nor where he came from. And as the Joneses said they were willing to adopt him, why Owen stayed with them till the old couple died, and that would be six years ago."
"And nothing was learned about his coming?"