“Where did he live when you knew him?” Latimer enquired, the wretched, dank little figure suddenly assuming the haunting air of something his eye must have rested on before.
“I seen him in North Ca’llina. He did not live thar—in the way other folks did. He was jest stayin’. I won’t keep ye standin’ in the rain,” insinuatingly. “I’ll jest walk along by ye.”
Latimer walked on. This dragged him back again, as other things had done once or twice. He did not speak, but strode on almost too rapidly for Stamps’s short legs. The short legs began to trot, and their owner to continue his explanations rather breathlessly.
“He warn’t livin’ thar same as other folks,” he said. “Thar was suthin’ curi’s about him. Nobody knowed nothin’ about him, an’ nobody knew nothin’ about his wife. Now I come to think of it, nobody ever knowed his name—but me.”
“Did he tell it to you?” said Latimer, rigidly.
“No,” with something verging on a chuckle, discreetly strangled at its birth. “Neither him nor his wife was tellin’ things just then. They was layin’ mighty low. She died when her child was borned, an’ he lit out right away an’ ain’t never been heern tell of since.”
Latimer said nothing. The rain began to fall more heavily, and Mr. Stamps trotted on.
“’Lowin’ for store clothes an’ agein’,” he continued, “I never seen two fellers favour each other as you two do. An’ his name bein’ the same as yourn, makes it curi’ser still.”
“You are getting very wet,” was Latimer’s sole comment.
“I got wet to the skin long afore you come out that house where ye was,” said Mr. Stamps; “but I ’low to find out whar ye live.”