"Scaylor—Ephraim Scaylor."
"Scaylor?" echoed Georgie, in amazement.
"Yes. Why, do you know him?"
"Why, that's the man mother and I had so much trouble with. I wouldn't write to that man. He's a rascal, Dad."
"What did he ever do to you and your mother?"
"I'll tell you, Dad; though it's a matter I don't talk about much. My father had trouble back there fifteen or sixteen years ago. He was running an engine, and had a wreck; there were some passengers killed. The dispatcher managed to throw the blame on father, and they indicted him for man-slaughter. He pretty near went crazy, and all of a sudden he disappeared, and we never heard of him from that day to this. But this man Scaylor, mother stuck to it, knew something about where father was; only he always denied it."
Trembling like a leaf, Dad raised up on his elbow. "What's your mother's name, son? What's your name?"
Georgie looked confused. "I'll tell you, Dad; there's nothing to be ashamed of. I was foolish enough, I told you once, to go out on a strike with the engineers down there. I was only a kid, and we were all black-listed. So I used my middle name, McNeal; my full name is George McNeal Sinclair."
The old fireman made a painful effort to sit up, to speak, but he choked. His face contracted, and Georgie rose frightened. With a herculean effort the old man raised himself up and grasped Georgie's hands.
"Son," he gasped to the astonished boy, "don't you know me?"