"Sit down, Jonah, and have some supper," said old Scofield, with a slight lingering gruffness.
The young man, however, accepted without compunction; and in a twinkling Addie had spirited on to the table an extra cup, plate, knife and fork, which were suspiciously ready to her hand.
"We had a queer thing happen on the train this afternoon," said Jonah, as the hot tea roused him into talkativeness again. And he proceeded to relate the occurrence with which our narrative of these events began. "Man's name is Piper," he continued—"Simeon Piper. No one knows anything about him, and he can't tell why he was there or where he was going. The shock put a screw loose in his brain somewhere, the doctor says. May get over it, and may not. But they won't keep him at the hospital long, because there's nothing the matter with him much, except that."
"Poor fellow!" Addie murmured. "What will he do when they send him away, if he doesn't know where he wants to go?"
"Can't make it out," was Jonah's answer. "Some one ought to take hold and help him till he gets well."
Addie made a prompt resolution.
"We'll take hold; won't we, father? Couldn't you bring him out here, Jonah?"
The brakeman reflected a moment. Piper was not young; so there was no objection on that score.
"Yes," he said, "I'll bring him out when I get back from my run to-morrow. They say he seems pretty well-to-do, too. He'll pay board."
"Never mind if he does," said Miss Scofield, artlessly. "We can be kind to him just the same."