“Leigh,” was the reply.
“Phil Leigh, eh? Hard a-lee. Well, where do you live?”
“At Greyton,” said the boy, slowly and sadly. “No, I used to live there, till—till—till—”
“Yes, I know,” said Jack, quickly, as he grasped the meaning of the boy’s working face. “But why don’t you live there now?”
“Because uncle came,” said the boy, with a shudder, “and then I—I—You won’t take me back, will you?”
“Dunno yet,” said Jack, sternly. “Boys arn’t got no business to run away from home. Watcher run away for?”
“He used to beat me so.”
“Beat you—a little un like you?” cried Jack, with a look of disgust. “What with?”
“Walking stick.”