“Ay,” said the lad with an actual tremor in his excited voice—“it's him, sure enow,” and sank back on his seat again as if he had found himself scarcely strong enough to stand. “I—I ha' not 'aten much fur two or three days,” he said to Evans.
There was not a man on the platform who did not evince some degree of pleasure at the approach of the new-comer. The last warm rays of the sun, already sinking behind the mountains, seemed rather to take pride in showing what a debonair young fellow he was, in glowing kindly upon his handsome face and strong, graceful figure, and touching up to greater brightness his bright hair.
The face was one to be remembered with a sentiment approaching gratitude for the mere existence of such genial and unspoiled good looks, but the voice that addressed the men was one to be loved, and loved without stint, it was so clear and light-hearted and frank.
“Boys,” said he, “good-evening to you. Evans, if you could spare me a minute”—
Evans rose at once.
“I'll speak to him,” he said to the lad at his side. “His word will go further with Lancashire Jack than mine would.” He went to the horse's side, and stood there for a few minutes talking in an undertone, and then he turned to the stranger and beckoned. “Come here,” he said.
The lad took up his bundle and obeyed the summons, advancing with an awkward almost stumbling step, suggestive of actual weakness as well as the extremity of shyness. Reaching the two men, he touched his cap humbly, and stood with timorous eyes upraised to the young man's face.
Langley met his glance with a somewhat puzzled look, which presently passed away in a light laugh. “I'm trying to remember who you are, my lad,” he said, “but I shall be obliged to give it up. I know your face, I think, but I have no recollection of your name. I dare say I have seen you often enough. You came from Deepton, Evans tells me.”
“Ay, mester, fro' Deepton.”
“A long journey for a lad like you to take alone,” with inward pity for the heavy face.